Three years ago my friends Maudie and Rich took an ultra-cheap trip to Hawaii to camp, run and soak up the tropical sights. As I dropped them off at the airport, they detailed their plans to me. The new couple aimed to tour around the island of Kauai, visit waterfalls and camp by the beach, or in their car—all on a super cheap budget.

As someone who appreciates both thrift and travel, I loved it! And maybe was even a little jealous.

“We rented a ‘beater’ [low cost, older] car as we heard that some people will break into cars left at trailheads, and to cut down on costs,” shared Maudie.

The photos they posted after their two-week trip inspired me: torrential rain storms, trails for miles and an adventure on a budget. I knew I had to do this and told them just that.

“Is it ok if I rip off your trip? I mean just copy it entirely: Kauai, trails and car-camping?”

Maudie responding with her normal enthusiasm.

“Absolutely!”

While trail races, visits to my family in NY and other obligations kept me from realizing this dream for several years, the idea of dirt-bagging in Hawaii never left my mind. There wasn’t a question on whether I would do this, just when.

The face of FREE TICKETS!

The perfect time finally came this past January. Emily had time off from work, and thanks to her flight benefits, we could get standby tickets on a direct flight from SeaTac to Lihue Airport on Kauai for a grand total of $0. After working a full day, I caught a Lyft directly from work and met Emily right after passing through security. We both carried identical Patagonia Black Hole duffles stuffed with sleeping bags, a tent, running gear and a few extra shirts and short. We each also carried a spare backpack that served as our “extra item” for the flight filled electronic readers, a drone and a few knick-knacks.

To our delight, the plane never ended up selling full, so the two of us shared the full aisle and got comfortable as the plane went wheels up. I was particularly thrilled to see my dream be realized.

The five and half hour flight was uneventful except that Emily caught a case of the jimmy legs—basically ants in the pants.

“Why is everyone else except me being so cool right now?” she wondered out loud.

It was night when we arrived at Lihue Airport. We headed over to the rentals area where we retrieved our rental car, a Dodge Grand Caravan with an essential feature: fold flat seats. You see, while we brought a tend and could easily camp out, our hopes were that we could just fold the seats and sleep in the back each night. All we needed to do was find a place to park, and BAM, camp was set.

Fold flat seats are a must. Thank you Dodge for this beautiful technology.

Thursday night we headed to Salt Pond Park. Emily had previously researched this location and while we didn’t have camping reservations, we figured we could slide into a parking spot and make ourselves inconspicuous. Luckily, that’s what happened …well, except for two significant exceptions.

Salt Pond Park

The first was that roosters roamed pretty much everywhere on the dark beach. Unlike the stereotype, they don’t just call at dawn, but actually crow ALL OF THE DAMN TIME. These feathered beasts especially crank it up to 11 when they notice anyone talking, walking, moving or sleeping in a van nearby. This is what happened to us. Walk outside to the toilets in the middle of the night and you’ll set off a series of dozens of vocally-gifted roosters. So much for keeping a low profile... UGH!

The second incident occurred around 4 am when Emily unlocked the van’s door from the inside the vehicle without using the clicker. This briefly set off the van’s alarm until she was able to locate the correct button to silence it.

Sorry people camping by. Sorry roosters for inspiring you to declare war on everyone.

Emily and I woke on Friday morning ready to get away from the chickens and to fuel up with some caffeine. We headed into town and stopped at Little Fish Coffee in Hanapepe—a lovely spot.

Waimea Canyon

It took us less than an hour to circle the island on route to our first running adventure. The weather was not the balmy 90s I expected, but had a low that sunk into the 50s, and a morning not much warmer. Plus, rain was expected. Our plan was to run the Waimea Canyon. This would only be about five or six miles, but we were promised beautiful views and maybe even a waterfall. Luck was on our side.

We ran down broad clay-covered trails and met the rim trail before the rain started. The sights across the valley were stunning: brown rock contrasted by lush green vegetation.

Just as we crossed the waterfall feeder stream we saw two men standing at the edge of the cliff a few feet from where we had just approached. One wore a helmet.

What was this?

In an instant one of the men jumped off from the ledge—deploying his parachute from a fixed line tied to a tree. He landing a hundred or so feet below. The other guide/support member told us it was the first time anyone had successfully base jumped from that point. Besides the buddy, Emily and I were the only other witnesses to this moment in history.

“Crazy!”

As we revered course and ran back up the trail, the sky opened up.

The rain made the previously dry and hard ground turn into a muddy mess. Luckily, Emily and I were able to make our way out without taking a fall. The drive back down from the canyon ridge looked entirely different from what we had seen just a few hours earlier. Clouds had darkened the valley and muted all the colors. We were lucky to see the contrast in scenery.

For lunch on Friday Emily picked up a Poke bowl from a local supermarket in Waimea, while I dined on a not-so-stellar hot dog from a local food truck. The lady at the supermarket checkout recommended visiting Polehale Beach—the same off-the-beaten-path beach recommended by the guy at the rental car place. While we were cautioned that we had to drive down a bumpy, dirt road for five miles to reach this scenic locale, we knew we had to visit.

The weather in Waimea was breezy, but bright. Spying far up along the coast we could see Polehale. While the weather in the distance looked dark and ominous, our curiosity could not be abated.

We drove North towards our destiny.

Polehale Beach

Arriving at Polehale, we knew we were in for a treat. At least, the memorable, stormy type. The winds were ripping at over 30-50 miles-per-hour. There were multiple destroyed tents torn to pieces from the rain and sand tearing through the air. Emily and I ventured briefly to the waters edge to experience the full ferocity of the storm.

IT WAS MIGHTY.

We love being outdoors and doing intense stuff, but that was no joke. We lasted all of 30 seconds before retreating back away from the waterline and towards a park shelter. We shared beers with a few travelers and locals who were hunkered down there too. We shared stories of where we came from and remarking at the power of the wind.

Friday evening we found a much quieter place to park the van, this at Lydgate Beach in Wailua. Like our first evening, we just located a space in a park and didn’t bother to try to camp. We didn’t give anyone trouble and we hoped no one would give us a hard time. Luckily, that was exactly the case. Maybe it was a combination of the season and weather, but the park seemed mostly vacant. We saw few tourists or visitors. Even better: the roosters were about 90% quieter and fewer in numbers.

Saturday we woke and repeated our coffee routine we developed since… well, forever. We drove into Waialua to the very lovely Java Kai. After fueling up, we headed out for our next run: Okolehao Trail. We knew the five mile, out-and-back route traced the edge of a ridge that climbed up and down, and that it would include lots of technical trail covered in roots and vines. But how bad could five miles really be?

The answer: There were ropes. And spiders.

Okolehao Trail

Emily led the first part of the trail until she had enough of “spider duty”. Done by the lead runner, this task included knocking down the dozens of webs (and their master architects) crossing the trail every hundred feet or so. After Emily bowed out, I took on the role and started eating web after web.

Later in the hike we encountered four or five short and then progressively longer fixed ropes that helped us climb up the steep, muddy incline. Later when we reversed course the ropes helped us get down without taking a tumble.

While this trail wasn’t the longest, or most scenic, it gave us a truly unique experience compared to the single-track we run in the Northwest. Plus, Jesus! The spiders had spikes on them.

After our trek, we were looking for something more restful so we made a b-line for the beach. After resting, splashing a little water and flying a drone in Kalihiwai, we packed up. Dinner was at a just so-so pizza place in Koloa, Pizzetta. We were short on time and were starving. In retrospect it was fine, but we probably could have spent our money better by just stopping for another poke bowl at the supermarket. $20 dinner is better than a $60 dinner. Oh well.

Cold Kalihiwai Swimming

Awaawapuhi Trail

Sunday morning we rinse-and-repeated our coffee adventures: Java Kai to the rescue! Once awake and alive, we drove to the Awaawapuhi Trail on the northwest end of the island. The 6.7-mile trail was special in that it ended with a grand view looking out over the Nā Pali Coast. Everyone raved about that location, but landslides had closed access to the coast for months so our view from Awaawapuhi was the closest we were going to come to experiencing the trek this time.

At the end of the run Emily was brave enough to venture out onto the exposed, slick clay ridge overlooking the coast. I got a case of the ‘nopes’ and instead stayed back and snapped photos. The run back to our car was uneventful. The grade was kind. The other hikers were friendly.

The trip ended with a shower at a Lihue YMCA. Cost: $20 for two passes. Worth. Every Penny.

The lookout over the ocean on the Awaawapuhi Trail

Total Cost

We had a luxurious trip to Hawaii. At no point did we truly skimp. When we wanted beer, we bought it. When we wanted ice cream, we dined. The areas we saved money on were 1)free airfare, 2)sleeping in a rented van vs. hotel, 3)trading a few sit-down meals for take-out from deli counters and 4)having an activity, running, that was entirely free.

Airfare, $0

Van rental and gas, $220

Food & Drinks, $200

Showers, $20

Misc, $25

The total per-person cost for Emily and me on this four-day trip was $250.

Getting In

I heard about the UTMB race a decade ago from friends in the running community. They described the steep climbs and scenic Alps with awe. The UTMB race loops Europe’s highest peak, Mount Blanc, and snakes through three countries—Italy, Switzerland and France. When the application period opened last December, I discovered that while I had run long and tough races that might normally qualify me for the event, not all of my finishes earned UTMB points (lesson: check the official list before running 100 miles). Because of this I ended up applying for the little sister of the UTMB, the CCC, a 100K variant.

A month went by and while I had the lottery date on my calendar, I didn’t pay it much attention. I knew that most runners take two, three or four attempts before their name is picked. Despite the odds, after coming home from work I brought up the UTMB website and plugged in my name. To my astonishment my status was “awaiting confirmation”—meaning that I was selected and just had to pay my fees and perform the other qualifying steps. Beyond excited!

For those unfamiliar with the UTMB process and are interested in applying, I recommend reading every single message the organizer sends. And of course, submit your medical waiver as soon as possible. Unlike many US races, UTMB requires you have a screening from a doctor before you toe the line. If you don’t submit the paperwork, you don’t run. Also, read the gear requirements very carefully so you have the equipment they require on race day. They can be military-grade strict.

The Race

The CCC is a very tough run. It’s not just that the event has over 18,000’ of climbing on a 62-mile course, but it was HOW the trail climbs, as in straight up. Apparently there isn’t a word in French for “switchback”.

The start was as I expected: thousands of runner toeing the line, instructions in four languages, and a course that weaved through the narrow streets of Courmatour, Italy before ascending the hills and transitioning from streets to single-track trails.

And then we just kept climbing.

Each aid station was packed with actual food. No Cliff bar or gu packets. Instead they had vats of cheese, meat, PB&J and soup. Every runner carried a bowl, cup and spoon that volunteers kindly filled with hot foot at each major aid station. Smaller aid stations had just water and electrolyte drink.

And then we climbed up.

The first thirty miles were as expected: hard. The only surprise was freezing fog at mile nine when we topped out at the highest point on the course, somewhere above 8,000'. While I didn’t feel the elevation, I definitely felt the chill.

It’s this cold now and its 11am?!?

Luckily, the freezing fog and a small amount of rain midway through the course was all the weather we got. It made a descent a muddy affair, but otherwise the weather gods looked kindly on us. From what I saw the previous few days in Chamonix, things aren’t always that pleasant as weather systems can sweep in and out of the valley by the minute.

I knew from the race timing of past years that most runners slow WAY down at night. This was exactly my experience. Once night hit, a combination of tough ascents and tired legs meant that my climbs were agonizingly slow. I recall one section between aid stations of just 5.5 miles. When I finally arrived back at the next shelter I was rendered exhausted. As a chorus, the other runners from Japan, China, France and England and I all complained about the brutal course. Suffering is universal.

How could such a short section be so hard?

My girlfriend Emily crewed me for the last 50k. She bused between aid stations and helped me change socks and get food at each stop. I complained. She kindly rubbed my back and helped me change shirts. I gulped down pasta and then headed back out into the darkness. At 55+ miles in, I knew I wasn’t going to be swept and would make it back to Chamonix. I just knew it would be ugly for the last two climbs of the course.

For me the end of the race was at dawn. While I had dragged for hours, by the time I got to the last 1k of the course in Chamonix I was booking it. My legs pumped as I weaved through old, narrow streets while locals and race volunteers cheered me on. I was tired, but I was hungry for a finish.

Emily ran and filmed these last steps.

We finished arm and arm.

The CCC was probably my hardest race, at least it felt that way when I was trudging uphill in the dark. I’ve finish six 100-mile races, and have done some other strenuous endurance events, but this 100k really took it out of me. Luckily, the sights, people, aid station food and sheer epicness of the course make it an event worthy of a return.

A giant thank you to the race organizers, volunteers, runners and trail gods.

I had just passed mile 22 of the Mt. Baker Ultra, a 50-mile race from Concrete, Washington to the top of Sherman Peak and back when I realized something wasn't right.

"I feel drained," I thought.

The weather was perfect. The aid stations frequent and well-stocked. But something was wrong inside of me.

A quick photo before I turned back and headed down the mountain. My race was over.

As planned, I had just transitioned from running shoes to boots and snowshoes and began trekking up the snowfield with the other competitors to the last stage of the out-and-back-course. I was less than four miles from the summit. Now trekking uphill, I had slid to last or nearly last in the group of 17 runners and felt depleted of energy, despite resting the night before and taking it easy on the first half of the race from Concrete. At around 8,000ft I made a judgement call. I turned back and descended down to the last aid station.

"I need to sleep. I don't feel well" I told the aid station workers.

Defeated, I slumped in the camping chair and rested at the aid station for a few minutes. After regaining my wits, I walked and then slowly trotted down the forest service road, and then retraced my steps back to the start/finish of the Mt. Baker Ultra. While I completed 45 of the 50-mile course, I felt dejected when I made it back to my car. My plan was to summit Mt. Baker's Sherman Peak… and I had failed.

I knew I had to come back to make it right.

My original plan was to return that same summer with a friend who was an experienced mountaineer and who could guide me up the glacial ascent. Unfortunately schedules got filled and I ended up missing the weather window for the climb. Oh well. I'd have to take matter into my own hands.

That fall I applied and was accepted into the Washington Alpine Club's Basic Climbing Program. Starting in February, I attended four months of weekly classes and weekend outings with a class full of impressive beginner mountaineers and outdoorsman. We would learn all the rock and snow skills needed to travel safely in the outdoors from volunteer instructors and program co-chairs—many of whom were previously WAC students themselves.

The goal of the class (and our graduation) was to put our skills together at the end of the program by climbing the10,781’ peak Mt. Baker—or at least that was the plan. However for the past three years weather kept students from summiting. I hoped our luck would be different.

I found the WAC program very challenging. The knots test was intimidating. The rock climbing in Vantage tested my wits. I even found myself in an emotional slump questioning, "what am I doing?", as a downpour of cold rain made our Mt. Erie rappelling trip a sufferfest. The book work and WAC outings took such a toll on my normal running lifestyle, I began to lose one of my most loved outdoor activities as well.

“Who am I.”—I questioned.

I found the WAC Basic Climbing Class to be one of the most challenging programs that I have ever attempted. Luckily the support from instructors, co-chairs and classmates was ever present so I kept chugging along.

After Mt. Erie we completed our Snow One trip at Mt. Baker’s Artists Point, and Snow Two at Mt. Rainier’s Nisqually Glacier, plus aline climbs at Lundin Peak, The Tooth and Guy Peak. At the beginning of the program this slew of outings seems like a daunting set of outings to complete, but one by one we got them done. (At least most of them. I was able to get out of climbing the multi-pitch route up The Tooth—whew!)

Soon enough we were in the third weekend of June, our backup date for climbing Baker. The weekend prior a storm system had rolled through the region, a common occurrence for the notoriously weather-prone mountain and canceled our original graduation climb date. This was our last available reserved weekend for the group outing, so it was go or no go.

On Wednesday we got the green light. Yes!

Friday afternoon I drove up to Mt. Baker with my classmate Tyler. We camped out at the end of the forest service road leading to the Park Butte Trailhead. As we made our beds for the nighTt the air was what felt to be unseasonably cold, but dry. I slept in my Subaru, while Tyler strung a hammock from my roof rack to a nearby tree. We both went to sleep filled with excitement and anticipation.

With our packs bulging, we started our trek to basecamp.

On Saturday morning we met up with our WAC classmates, instructors and co-chairs—now all friends. After a required pack check from instructors, just after 10am we departed as a group and began climbing out of the meadow and towards the planning Easton Route up Baker. After months of classes, and almost an entire year of planning, this was finally happening.

With packs loaded heavy with stove fuel, food, extra clothing and tents, we climbed at slow pace, but after a few hours of effort we made camp on the snow field at 6,500'. Strong gusts of wind whipped up as we attempted to build snow platforms, snow walls and construct our four-season tents. The gusts made the entire process hilarious, but also reminded us that this mountain had real weather on it.

After a briefing from the climb leaders we were ordered to bed around 5PM.

“Sleep as much as you can. We will wake at midnight.”

And so we did, or at least we attempted to. The sun was still out, but Tyler and I laid in our tent and attempted to rest while wind lashed our rainfly. It was around 7PM that head of climbing and long-time instructor and legend, Pat, called out to the resting classmates.

“A storm circled back and is headed our way. It will hit in about 15 minutes. Prepare yourself.”

Like clockwork, a quarter hour later the dark clouds circled back to our stretch of the mountain. The wind picked up violently, and powerful, heavy and freezing rain began to dump onto our tents. Each drop sounded link a finger plunking the tent fabric, but multiplied times a thousand. At one point I thought the storm had shifted over to dropping hail, but after a peek outside I just realized that this was a mountain-sized rain storm.

“These are giant drops”

After an hour or so of dropping chaos, the storm rolled on, but left the wind to continue to bat our tents around. That was fine with me.

Instead of waking the climbers at midnight, climb leaders decided to postpone the start by an hour. We were woken at 1AM, and were roped up in our established team and ready to start trekking at 2AM. The gusting wind never left so it continued to harass us as we attempted to warm up, but honestly it wasn’t bad. The night was now clear, stars out and no precipitation. I was happy and excited and ready to roll.

Mid-climb, we take a break to snack and take in the view

The most challenging part of the climb was just the waiting. Several rope teams had started the climb before WAC, so at each bottleneck we waited. And waited. And waited. This meant we weren’t getting out of breathe, and had a firmly established boot pack to follow, but it also meant that I was getting a little cold. One we saw a break out point to start moving head of a few rope teams, we took it. My rope team consisted of Andrew and myself, and our instructor Ian.

So far, so good.

Now, you have to understand that the entire WAC class instructors and co-chairs have been warning us about the Roman Wall, a distinct feature on Baker. Over the past four months we practiced repeatedly French Stepping, ice axe arrest, rope management and countless other mountaineering tactics under the threat that if we did not master these skills, the Roman Wall would eat us. We were promised that the 1000 feet of 35-45 degree climbing just below the summit was the devil incarnate. And worse, a giant, “bus-eating” crevasse lived just at the bottom ready to consume any unlucky climbers who lose their footing. So as you can imagine, I was a little focused as we ascended, my vision scanning in the early dawn light for the menace that I knew lived ahead.

When I saw the Roman Wall, it did look steep, but then again all things do from a distance. As we approached and got within a 100 meters I could clearly see the defined boot path switchbacking up the incline. This was totally doable, and not the monster that I had envisioned.

While packed in with two other rope teams, we made slow but steady progress up this last pitch on Baker. After ascending one more hill we came to the 10,781′ summit. The sun was shining. The air was clear. This was the long climb that I had visualized for the past twelve months was over, and it came easier than I had expected.

Success! The summit of Baker in ideal conditions with wonderful people.

It was just before dawn when I summited the 2,398' Mt. Constitution on Orcas Island, it's highest peak of the island and a view I had already visited two times previously since I started the Orcas Island 100 the previous morning. The early sun rays cut up from just below the horizon and painted the sky pink and orange—contrasted the muted clouds and blue sky. Despite the light, my third visit to Mt. Constitution was not a hopeful one.

Despite the light, my third visit to Mt. Constitution was not a hopeful one.

While climbing the brutal and unrelenting Powerline Trail minutes earlier I had convinced myself to quit as soon I got to the next aid station. It was done and decided. I had no specific injury, but was defeated by the previous 20 hours of struggle. Throughout the night I shivered in the sub-freezing temperatures compounded by strong gusts of wind ripping across island lakes and hilltops. That, and I couldn't stay awake for the life of me. At one point I laid down at the Mt. Pickett aid station and napped for 25 minutes next to a fireplace to try to recapture my spirit. Unfortunately this did little to bring my body or mind back to life.

"Maybe this race was just too early in the year?", I thought as I attempted to troubleshoot my failing body.

While I had run and completed 100-mile races before, they were all in the later summer. To train for my previous hundreds (and I've earned five buckles, ahem) I had competed in shorter races and ramped up my training to peak just at the right moment: August or September. As an early February race, my training for Orcas was entirely different.

Lacking the time or daylight to pack in many miles in December and January, I opted for a three prong approach to prepare my body and mind for the four 25-mile loops I knew I'd have to complete to earn my Orcas 100 buckle:

Log weekend trail miles in my local stomping grounds of Issaquah, including hill repeats and treks up and down Mailbox Peak and Mt. Si.

Ramp up my hot yoga from just a single class a week to 3 or 4 to build my core strength and maybe store some heat to use on race day (that's a thing, right?)

Watch inspirational videos on YouTube by the Mulligan Brothers and this Will Smith clip. I love when he describes not being afraid to die on a treadmill. Smith hypothesizes that if he and someone else got on a treadmill together that he has the will to get off last, or die. Wow. There is something that I love about his intensity and that fatalistic dedication. I want to feel that commitment and mission!

I stuck with my training plan through December and January, counting down the weeks until race day. I knew Orcas 100 was going to be hard as I've run and completed the 50k version on the island three times before, but I didn't know how deep I'd have to reach. That is, until race weekend arrived.

The evening before the storm

The night before our start, all the runners assembled for a briefing at Camp Moran at the very far east end of Orcas. Ninety two friendly faces surrounded me, and listened intently as the race director, James Varner, read out updates on trail conditions, "Your feet will get wet", and reminded everyone to keep an eye out for course markers. I felt surprisingly relaxed and ready. The next morning, Friday, Feb. 9th I'd meet my "treadmill" challenge.

Before heading to bed, co-race director Elizabeth asked if I'd be open to capturing some GoPro footage from the trails and to being interviewed by KUOW, our local NPR station. "Of course" was my reply, always passionate for advocating for the trails.

Kara, a Web reporter, filmed a brief interview and inquired about my training from the past few months and goal for the run.

"To finish in less than 36-hours." I replied, stating the race cutoff time allotment. I wasn't being pessimistic, I just knew my goal was to finish and earn a buckle. Anything else would be gravy, or, Orcas mud.

High-five. Let's run.

On race morning I assembled with the other runners in the cool pre-dawn air. After a few unceremonious words, the adventure began. The first forty miles went as expected. I was conservative with my pace and aggressiveness, and listened to what my body needed: water, pickles, ginger ale, protein bars and more pickles. I tried to tune out with some music stored on my phone but never got into the flow, something that normally comes easy. Weird, but not disruptive.

As always the climb up the Powerline trail was tough. While it was by no means balmy, the sun had warmed up the cool moss just enough to cause sheets of steam to rise up from the ground. It was beautiful, and the perfect momentary distractions from the ascent.

But the promises of warmth were short lived. A few miles on while descending on a thickly-forested trail I was shocked by how cold it in the shadows, even during the middle of the day.

"It is going to be a cold night" I thought. And it was.

This is the first mountain race when I had to wear two pairs of gloves while moving at night: regular running ones covered by heavy snowboarding gloves. And sometimes this wasn't even enough to keep the chill out. During the early hours of Saturday I also layered on tights over my shorts and a lightweight shell pant over those to keep out the wind, or at least to try to. These layers did little to block the chill. For the life of my mountain running career I can't recall ever being that cold for that long. Hours of trying to stay warm while attempting to build warmth inside of my core. While the thermometer only said 30°F at its coolest, it felt so much colder. Maybe it was the wind or my emotions, but I was couldn't warm up.

You think you're quitting?!?

I had hurt for the past 12 hours and I was just done. 

By the time I got around to my third climb up Mt. Constitution, around mile 73, I had enough of the experience. I forgot all about Mr. Smith's inspiration, the steam I built up from hot yoga or my promise to NEVER come off the race course under my own will. I had hurt for the past 12 hours and I was just done.

But then something changed.

I saw Kara, the KUOW reporter, at the Mt. Constitution aid station where she had stayed up the whole night serving as the medic and capturing footage for her article. I saw my other friends bravely continuing down the trail from Mt. Constitution, starting their fourth and final loop. I saw the edge of the sun creep above the horizon and finalally light the sky after a long night. And I snacked on some jelly beans, too.

Hallelujah!

In that moment at the aid station my hope was restored. I would continue. I had 29 more miles to run, and 13 hours to do it. Even if I walked the entire thing. I knew my mission. But first I had to take my trek up the Tower Club.

You see in addition to climbing 26,000' while running the 100-mile course, the wild beasts at Rainshadow Running were inspired to add yet another challenge to the event. For those who chose, runners could climb up the medieval-themed watch tower on top of Constitution as an added feat. To prove that runners ascended all the way to the top, race organizers left a hole punch which each of us used to add a mark to our race bib. One climb. One punch. Four climbs: and you're in the Tower Club, earning a special, dramatic shirt and odd bragging rights. While I was slow and recovering from my sleepiness, I couldn't resist the additional challenge (or sweet shirt).

That last loop was fun. One runner told me a secret: to curse and bid farewell each rock and tree you pass on the final loop, and that's exactly what I did. "!%$@ YOU, BRIDGE!", "#$@. YOURSELF, TREE!" It was sillygame, but a fun one that helps my final miles pass by.

While my forth loop of the course, now in the daytime, was neither my slowest or prettiest, I made it back up to Mt. Constitution one final time, took aid and then climbed the tower. After grabbing my final punch, I descended and ran down the trail as the sun set for a second time. I made it the final four miles back to Camp Moran a little over an hour later earning a time of 33:59:23. To my surprise, everyone eating and drinking at Camp Moran paused momentarily to cheer when I arrived, one of the last eight out of a total 69 2018 Orcas 100 finishers.

After grabbing a beer, I did a quick interview with Kara, and then spent the rest of the night listening to the live string band perform at Camp Moran and nursing my sore feet. I had earned my buckle. I had achieved my goal. And most importantly, I had not betrayed Will Smith.

But in all seriousness, thanks does not go to YouTube motivational videos or celebrity rappers, but to the race organizers and volunteers who braved tough weather to host a challenging race for just 92 runners, and 69 finishers. You are strong, kind and caring people. Thank you for letting me touch the darkness and make it back.

A few days later Kara published her dramatically-titled KUOW article "What 100 miles of misery looks like" and video. While in truth for me it was probably only about 35-miles of true misery, I thought she perfectly captured the spirit of the event. I was thrilled to hear that Kara was so inspired by the Orcas event that within days she signed up for her first, trail race. Beautiful!

My goal was to finish Orcas and I was able to achieve that. Even more than gratified, I feel grateful to those who helped me make it back from the darkness.

A poem I was inspired to write while running on a cold, raining night. Enjoy!

Braving the heavy, cold rain tonight I needed miles so I ran around the Issaquah Highlands while being hammered by the torrential downpour. While gloves, a jacket, a head buff and tights gave me some protection, the rain still found a way inside—giving a chill and making me run harder. I cut up and around block after block. Each step I placed with intention while darting between puddles. This was fruitless because my shoes were already filled with rain, but I did it anyway like a game only I was playing. I was a wild mess.

It was like a zoo visitor peering in at a trapped beast, but our positions were reversed.

While passing a block of shops my eyes connected momentarily through the bright storefront window with the gaze of an employee in Ulta. She was elegantly dressed and her makeup was artful. At that moment, we were of two worlds—close but different. It was like a zoo visitor peering in at a trapped beast, but our positions were reversed.

When that briefest of moments was over, I ran on into the night, puddle hoping and shaking water from my hair.

With 2017 newly over, I'm inspired to look back at my photos from the past year, to reflect on my travels and to think about how I spent the past twelve months. How do I summarize the year? What were my brightest moments? Darkest?

In reflection, I can honestly say 2017 was a year of goal setting and accomplishment and a year of creative growth. I haven't done the math but it feels like I set and realized more goals in 2017 and make more art than in the previous decade. While none of these triumphs were Everest-sized, even small wins filled my sails. I believe the inherent act of setting a goal and achieving it can build to something greater. These were a few highlights from 2017.

This is my "dehydration is a killer" face, taken after a particularly intense Core Power class

Hot, Sweaty Yogi

Exactly a year ago I chose to spend 2017 focused on my health. As a 35-year-old, I had begun to feel the wear of a very active lifestyle. I knew that burning the candle at both ends would only go on for so long before I would begin to experience ramifications from running on empty. Sometimes literally. This was why I made health my intention. Whether the dimension was mental, physical or emotional I used this theme to help me make choices. Opt for the kale over the frozen pizza... at least most of the time.

As an expression of this I committed to taking a hot yoga class at least once a week for a year. While I had gone to classes on and off in the past, I never gave yoga a fair try. I felt ill in the stifling heat and didn't share the exuberant praise that so many Yogis expressed. But... I did like how my body felt after class. My core felt strong and my hips were open so I had to give it a fair shake.

My routine was intense to say the least but it fit with my work schedule: wake at 5:15 a.m., stumble out of bed, dress and grab a coffee at Starbucks. I'd them down the essential caffeinated beverage while listening to 90s hip-hop in my car. By the time I entered my local Hot Yoga Experience studio around 5:50am my heart was pumping and I was ready for the 65-minute class.

LET'S DO THIS!

As a trail runner who roams in the wild, the idea I had to show up at a particular class time and listen to an instructor order me around was completely alien. Luckily, I battled through this discomfort.

By the time each class was over my hair, bare chest and shorts were saturated with sweat. But I was also awake, alive and mentally steady for the day. While it took months of practice, towards the fall I starting to hate hot yoga a little less. What had started as a despised habit I conscripted myself into gradually grew into a valued form of exercise, and a form of reflection and meditation. Honestly, namaste.

When I took my last class in December I couldn't help from smiling. I had aimed at something that was threatening to me: heat, strict instruction and rigorous activity. But I made a plan, put in the effort and realized this sweaty, sweaty goal.

Stories in full color

Moviemaker & Creator

In the fall of 2016 a good friend and an accomplished adventurer, Richard Kresser, handed me SD cards with footage from an epic climb and run he did around a series of Cascade Volcanoes: Mt. Rainier, Mt. Adams, Mt. St. Helens and Mt Hood. He accomplished this 247-mile feat back-to-back and solo over six and half days. What a BEAST!

"Want to make a movie?" Richard asked.

Flattered, but also intimidated, I decided to jump at it.

"YES!"

While I had committed to becoming a filmmaker a year earlier after being laid off and had the technical skills to film and edit, committing to making something "real" was scary. Nevertheless I agreed. After a few post-adventure interviews with Richard, his girlfriend and his friends and family, I logged the new footage and the hours of content Richard had shot. Slowly I pieced together a narrative of his solo adventure. By summer 2017 I had assembled a 17-minute feature that I had confidence in. For the first time ever I had combined professionally produced motion graphics with licensed music into a cohesive story. In mid-August, we screened Dick's RASH: The Up, Down and Around at Seven Hills, a loved, local running shop.

We received over 100 RSVPs for the Tuesday night screening, a quantity that the shop couldn't possibly seat, but I also knew that at least 30-40% of the folks would be no-shows as Seattle traffic and work got in the way. Boy was I wrong. I think the final count was 98 people seated EVERYWHERE inside the running shop. We bought 70 beers and quickly burned through those and the pizza the Altra Running brand rep kindly funded. At the end of the screening, we hosted a Q&A where Richard answered technical questions on gear and his inspiration for the RASH challenge. The event could not have gone better. As I drove back to my home that evening a grin spread across my face. I did something scary, made some art and learned a bunch along the way. How cool!

After a successful screening in Seattle, Richard and I headed down to Portland to show the movie and host a Q&A at Evolution Healthcare and Fitness. Evolution wasn't just a top-notch training center, but also has the largest non-theater HD projection system in the city. I was amazingly lucky to get to show the movie there.

Dick's RASH had one more trick up it's sleeve. At the end of the year I learned that North Bend Theatre was having a film festival. While I couldn't attend due to travel, Richard was able to attend so I entered the film for consideration. A week later I got the great news: the movie picked up accolades for 3rd place selection also fan favorite. This meant bragging rights and a $200 in cold hard cash (ok, really, a check, but you get what I mean).

Seven Hills Running in Seattle

Evolution Fitness in Portland

North Bend Film Festival

Beyond Dick's RASH, I also make about a dozen short movies about running. My favorites from 2017 are linked below and are also available on my YouTube channel:

Closing a Chapter in North Seattle

Nine years earlier as a bright-eyed 27-year-old I bought a condo in the Northgate neighborhood of Seattle. In March of last year I sold it. So much life was lived in between. When I signed the sale paper I reflected on what I had accomplished and gained: I survived the housing crash of 2009, the expected drama of a home owners association, and picked up skills as a HOA president and board member, landlord, and even made it through two flood incidents that required significant renovations. While my venture into homeownership wasn't entirely positive or wildly cash-positive, I managed it. I balanced budgets, paid bills and didn't run when luck turned against me. This was adulthood in its rawest: now milestones of success, but milestones of "owning it", the lemons and lemonade.

Thank you to the friends who were part of my Burke Ave life: Allison, Jeff and Kristin, 11, Gary, Regan, and many others. While my financial benefit following the experience could buy little more than a used 1995 Honda Civic, the wealth of memories, skills and knowledge will pay dividends far into the future... at least I hope. Oh, and I'm not going to be on an HOA board again.

Racing & Adventures

I saw this trend in successfully setting and realizing (mostly) goals, too. Three years earlier I was denied a sweet marketing role at Dakine (ouch!) after being enchanted by the adventurers paradise, Hood River. Ever since I promised myself that I'd go back there to either live full time or at least to have an extended stay. In August I made it happen and stayed with friends and at an AirBNB while working remotely. Each morning before work I'd run or mountain bike with Luna Tuna. The evenings and weekends I'd enjoy the local breweries or go exploring with friends. Hood River wa exactly what I was looking for. The only downside was that wild fires were burning across British Columbia causing a plume of heavy smoke to blow south and settle in the Columbia River Gorge. This meant that halfway through my visit the stunning town I loved so much was suddenly shrouded in thick smoke. A heatwave added to the discomfort. Nevertheless, I was proud of realizing a goal that I had previously set forth.

I also committed to tough races in the spring and summer and was able to see through the training and preparation all the way through to race day earning finishes at Orcas Island 50k, Gorge Waterfalls 100k, Beacon Rock50k and Needles 25k.

The biggest challenge of the summer was a wild running/mountaineering race called the Mt. Baker Ultra. Starting at midnight in Concrete, Washington, competitors ran to the base of the mountain, summitted Sherman Peak (just shy of the true summit), and reversed course back to Concrete for a total of 50-miles and 10,000+ feet of climbing. While I ended up not summiting on race day due to an unexplained flash illness, I did run 45 of the 50-mile course and was proud of my efforts, and knew I'd be back next year.

Nailed it! This was my first finish of IMTUF and my fifth 100-mile buckle. Notice the intentional notch that is perfect for popping bottle caps to toast a successful run.

All of my running pursuits were focused on preparing me for a September return to Idaho. I HAD to earn a finish at the challenging IMTUF 100 in McCall, Idaho. Three years earlier I had DNF'd on the course at mile 52. Luckily, my return put my heart at ease and I earned a finisher buckle (triumphantly detailed in this blog post).

I rounded out the year by fitting in a successful climb of Sahale Peak and a last-minute trip to the Grand Canyon to run the Rim-to-Rim-Rim trail. Both of these experiences were goal achievements for me so I was thrilled that I could fit them into 2017 before winter weather closed the trails.

And for my finale...

As I had done for the past three years, I also organized a group summit of a local mountain to celebrate the last dawn of year. Happy 2017!

I'm grateful to my boss, Gerard, and my colleagues at BECU for their confidence in me as a marketer and storyteller. I'm grateful for my friends who I adventure with on trails near and far. I'm grateful to my family for their support and for their visits to meet up in Philadelphia, Seattle and Salt Lake City.

Like remembering every detail of your child's birth: the day, time, statements said and emotions felt, I can clearly recall the moment I became an athlete. My birth was spiritual. My afterbirth was sore legs and a beaming grin. I was the ripe age of 27 and had just ran my second trail race, a local 10-miler where I (amazingly) earned a fifth-place finish. I sprinted the last two miles of the course as the trail switchbacked down a ridge, and overtook a few 40-something dads. My lungs burned, but my will was decided.

"These guys aren't passing me" I thought with determination as I pumped my arms and kicking my legs. A few minutes of suffering later and I made it to the finish line of the Grand Ridge Solstice Run.

Wow. So this is what I was missing!?!

Elated with my performance and thirsty from the effort, I sipped dixie cups of Mountain Dew and repeatedly thanked the race director, Roger. While a modest achievement, that afternoon run in 2009 forever changed me. It was a long time coming, but I finally discovered how I could compete and succeed as an athlete.

My birth was spiritual. My afterbirth was sore legs and a beaming grin.

Growing up I was no couch potato, but I never excelled at traditional team sports. To get me engaged in Little League my parents bribed me with post-game sodas. Despite the sugary reward, every game felt like I had to pretend to care. Meanwhile I failed to master the basics in practice or competition, and dropped the sport after two seasons. Hits? Nope.

Soccer in the New Windsor Rec. League; I think my hair was a political statement

I lasted longer in the weekend soccer league, but my foot-eye coordination was still rudimentary. I could catch up to other players and my enthusiasm was top-notch, but then I'd fumble the ball game after game. I failed to score a single goal in my entire soccer career.

What's the equivalent of a strikeout in soccer again? Whatever that is, I had LOTS of those.

Ridin' big since '81

For a period in my youth I also got into cycling influenced by Greg Lemond's win in the Tour du France. These were the "clean" days of professional cycling when feats of endurance were celebrated universally with awe and accolades. Watching Lemond's accomplishment—and later Lance Armstrong—I was inspired (and a bit goofy). I wanted to feel that suffering and to wear those laurels.

For my birthday my parents bought me a road bike, but it was much larger than my body could manage.

"You'll grow into the frame" they promised.

I peddled that 24-speed around my neighborhood wearing an oversized helmet and seated on a saddle wrapped in a bright pink cover. It looked very 1990s and screamed awkward pre-teen. Despite this, I felt empowered and pumped my legs while looping the block and fending off chasing Terriers.

When I was in grade school my dad developed a passion for speed skating at a Yonkers, NY rink and brought me, my brother and mom along to skate, too. We weren't great, but it was still a blast. During the warmer months my dad also ran on the road from my house, climbing a steep hill on Rt 33 on a four mile circuit. At the time the distance sounded unfathomably far. He also shared stories of running marathons. His thin frame, Type I muscle fibers and patience made him perfect for endurance sports. I wanted to be like that.

I looked up to my dad, literally (he is 6'3''), but also athletically. My father was talented. While I never quite could get the basics, he demonstrated with patience: baseball, basketball, soccer, etc. He never pressured me. My dad expressed pride in my attempts.

Posing with my childhood friend Joey

In junior high and high school I rowed crew and started to connect with my maturing body, but never felt the "rowers high" I was promised. Sports were ok and I loved the social component and excuse to interact with girls on the coed team.

Rowing was fun I just lacked the dreams of setting new school records or capturing stardom in another sport like my peers. I yearned to be physical, but struggled to find a way to work the itch.

Sports in school were worse. Each high school class in Newburgh Free Academy was identical to the last. Coach Bucci would have all the boys form into six teams, three games. I would either attempt to play in the "bad players game" or not even attempt; spending the entire class sitting on the bleachers while dramatically expressing my teenage angst with fellow athletic flunks.

You’re gonna need to own this. You’re an adult

After graduating from high school I worked crumby jobs: cart pusher at Home Depot, front desk clerk at a shabby hotel, and customer service rep at a mall. The jobs were terrible enough to inspire me to dream bigger. With honest and raw words from my mother, "You're gonna need to own this. You're an adult now", I eventually figured out how to get to college. It was there that a new athletic chapter began: the weightlifter.

But first, I got fat.

Freshman year, Spring 2002. I wasn't exactly looking my best.

My freshman year was full of overindulgence in sweets and cereal. Luckily in my sophomore year I registered for a class on strength and conditioning. This move proved transformative.

Taught by an intense type-A trainer, the class was held twice weekly in the campus gym with the time divided evenly between detailed lectures and hands-on iron-banging. I LOVED IT. I found the instruction and homework on anatomy and training technique immensely intriguing, and the actual strength conditioning almost immediately demonstrated results. My body was changing.

Within a few months I went from violently quivering while attempting to complete a single bench press to loading on plate after plate as my limits grew. This class also touched on nutrition and diet supplementation so by mid-semester I had traded the sugary snacks for clean eating and a stack of whey protein and creatine. While the supplements made my farts horrendous, the nutrition and exercise routine replaced fat with muscle. For one of the first time in my life I felt like I was tapping into my power.

Each meal now had a purpose: to grow. I'd grill skinless chicken on a George Foreman and added spicy mustard for flavor. Microwaved broccoli from Trader Joe's was my roughage. I ate this meal countless times while reading Gregg Valentino's column in Muscular Development (Men's Health just didn't cut it). I even bought a "dip belt" so I could hang weight off my hips while doing pull-ups to maximize the intensity. It's was beautiful.

Eventually I earned the nickname "Well Oiled Machine" from one of the school gym managers for the way I'd move from one lift to the next (and probably for my habitual perspiration, too). I wasn't close to being the biggest or strongest guy at the gym, but I adopted a lifestyle, community and identity.

This was my church.

By senior year I was now walking around at 200lbs, could benchpress about 1 1/2 my bodyweight, and deadlift over 400lb. Nothing to write home about for the gym elite, but I knew where I started from a few years earlier and was proud of my progress. And so I did what any regular college student would do at that point. I nair-ed off all the hair on my body and hired a fellow student coworker from my job at the admissions office to take photos of my heavily-oiled physique. Pic or it didn't happen.

I nair-ed off all the hair on my body

After picking up my diploma I felt a shift. I knew that that chapter of my life was coming to a close, and not just my undergrad. I realized that the gym might not be in my future. Maybe I was destined for something else?

After college, I moved west to Seattle for grad school at the University of Washington. Shortly after setting into my new home, I sold my car and used the money to buy a nice lightweight road bike and a motorcycle. Moving to Seattle and selling my car felt novel and reckless, and I LOVED IT. Suffering through rain was worth the story.

Seattle is known for more than just Starbucks and Sleepless. It's also a place full of incredible everyday athletes who use the surrounding mountains to run, ski, climb and explore year round. After you've drank all the coffee and read all the books, roaming outside is just what Seattleites do.

Leon and I climbing up Mt. Rainier shortly after arriving in Seattle

In his mid-40s, Guy Browne was my first landlord. He had an intense passion for cycling and the shredded physic to go with it. As one of the first people I met in my new city he made an immediate impression on me.

These people are different.

Guy's weekends were spent suffering up hills, and riding long miles through all the tough weather Washington could throw at him. And he was just one of many everyday people who I met in my new city during that first year who did epic, epic things on the regular. I couldn't have been more excited to be a part of this community.

After being in Seattle less than a week, Leon, a college friend and my housemate, decided to head to Mt. Rainier thinking it wasn't that big of a hike. We had grown up not far from each other in the Hudson Valley area of Southern New York. There were mountains there. Surely Rainier couldn't be that much different?

On our drive to Ashland, Wa, the giant volcano continued to grow and grow and grow in our field of view, dominating the skyline on the brilliant July afternoon. We soon realized this mountain was different than the ancient hills we grew up around. Jesus. This thing is immense.

Leon and I started the hike up Rainier from the Paradise Visitor Center, climbing high up the mountain and into July ice and snow before realizing our folly. I trekked in Timberland boots, and lacked the food or gear the hike required. Leon was similarly unprepared. Our wits finally got the best of us just above 8,000'.

"What are we doing? We should go down."

Leon and I turned back and headed back down the winding trail. We lived to hike another day. And we did many times throughout that first fall.

While my days and nights were packed with work at the University of Washington and graduate school, I couldn't keep the mountains from calling. Every chance I got I explored the trails around my new home. A friend recommended Beyond Mt. Si, a popular hiking guide listing the top treks around Seattle, including the namesake and one of the most popular climbs in the state., Mt. Si.

I wanted to do them all.

Atop Mt. Si with an appearance of Rainier in the background, 2006

Soon I was backpacking in the Central Cascades and exploring the trails on the Olympic Peninsula while gaining confidence in my abilities to move in the outdoors. A few years later my father and Uncle came out and we climbed Mt. Rainier. While an injury kept my dad from the summit, my uncle and I had more luck and reached the crater of the 14,411' volcano on a bluebird day. I was exhausted when we finally made it off the mountain and sat down to enjoy a meal, but we had made it! I felt transformed. I wasn't a weightlifting gym rat anymore. I had become something even better.

And it turns out my metamorphosis from Northeast urbanite to Northwest alpinist was just getting started. But first... I get a little fat again.

After graduating from the University of Washington with my masters, I focused on work and life. Somewhere along the way I strayed from my fitness lifestyle: consuming too many burritos and mojitos, and added a roll of fat around my waist. I wasn't obese, but I definitely wasn't baby-oil-trim either. My doctor even asked about my sudden uptick on the scale.

"Well Mexican food is delicious." I sheepishly admitted.

Seattle has great mountains and wilderness... but it also has great tacos. For a bit, I lost my fitness edge and started to gain weight.

Unrelated, but around the same time in 2008 I began experiencing significant jaw pain emanating from my Temporomandibular Joint. My jaw hurt all the time. After the condition worsened, I saw a few specialists who shared some sobering news:

To resolve the issue, I'd have to get braces (again)... as an adult

Following braces, I'd have surgery that would break and reset both my upper and lower jaw

After grappling with my options, I finally committed and had dental hardware attached that summer. The following June I had the surgery. I was grateful that my folks came out to visit and to support me through the recovery.

Once I got out of Swedish Hospital in Seattle I spent the first 3-4 weeks with my mouth mostly bound shut with rubber bands. The only nutrition I consumed was slurped in through the sides of my mouth. The arrangement inherently imposed a caloric deficit on my body and the extra fat I carried immediately dropped from my body. Within a month I lost 25 pounds, plummeting from a high of a chunky 195 to a slim 170. While my face was still swollen and I still wore braces across a rubber-band-bound grin, I was making progress. The knew the worst was behind me.

Who needs Weight Watchers when you have jaw breakers?

A month and a half after the surgery the pain and most of the swelling had subsided. I finally felt strong enough to get outside. Looking for a social place to be active I headed down to a popular running route in Seattle, Green Lake. My plan was to loop the lake as I had done many times before. I never considered myself a runner, but I could do three miles, and so I started off on the trek. The day was perfect: mild, sunny and alive with fellow Seattleites enjoying the humidity-free air.

Greenlake: The place of my destiny

My new, slimmed down body felt great on the August morning as I started out on the loop. My grill was still sparkling with orthodontics and rubber bands guiding my jaw shut, but I didn't care. I was happy! Distracted by the runners, cyclists, roller-skaters, kids and dogs, the loop just flew by. As I rounded the final corner by the paddle boats and fishing docks, something odd happened.

"What if I do another?" I thought.

In all of my 27 years, I had NEVER run further than 4 miles. This was uncharted territory. But alas, I trotted on. When I was a few hundred meters from finishing my second loop, six miles, I committed even bigger.

"I'm going to run a half marathon... right now."

And so I did. I stopped at water fountains for water and just kept trotting along knowing that four loops and half would get to me this newly acquired goal. I didn't have a GPS watch, technical running gear or anything fancy, but I eventually finished, aching feet and all.

Thrilled but exhausted, I limped to my car and drove the mile and half to my condo. When I got home I immediately called my mom in NY and reported my discovery in an excited tone, "I'm a RUNNER! I just ran a half marathon. I just ran 13.1 miles on my own!". Her reply was classic, "Isn't that a bit extreme?" Maybe, but a fire was now lit inside me.

Little did she know what was to come.

Within days I threw away my ancient $20 Champs gym shoes and headed to REI to invest in real running sneakers. After consulting one of the sales reps, I settled on a pair of Adidas Supernova road shoes that were on sale for what I thought then was still an astronomical price of $80. WHAT?!? I also bought real running socks, 2-in-1 shorts and eventually started eyeing GPS watches. I was all in, in heart, body and wallet. This wasn't a sport I was picking up. This was an identity I was internalizing.

Soon I started staying downtown late after work to join Niketown evening runs. I loved the excitement of running with a group and the post-miles gorge on cookies and grapes. Every conversation with a veteran runner was informative and every recommendation I'd take detailed notes from. I devoured Runner's World, and the books Born to Run by Christopher McDougall, and Ultramarathon Man and 50/50 by Dean Karnazes.

I started running self-designed road routes around my neighborhood and beyond, pushing the distance and finding new challenges. The fall after my self-rediscovery I ran my first half-marathon with my aunt, cousin and father: the 2009 Philadelphia Half Marathon and finished in a respectable 2:03:17.

Not bad for a kid who thought for years he just wasn't a runner.

While I had previously questioned why anyone would pay to run a race when they could just do the road miles for free, when I crossed the finish line next to the Philadelphia Art Museum and Rocky sculpture, I knew realized why. The cheers. The community. Without sounding too cheesy: the glory. It was amazing.

Running wasn't easy for me, especially as I logged more miles, but it connected with my soul more than any other physical activity I had ever experienced. This wasn't a runner's high. This was something deeper. Every mile I logged etched in an identity.

In 2010 I continued to run and hike until one fateful Saturday while hiking on Tiger Mt., a 3,000' six-peaked behemoth situated in the heart of what is lovingly called the Issaquah Alps, a series of mid-sized mountains about a half-hour from Seattle. That morning I had trekked up the Highline Trail, and just as I summited the Tiger 3 peak, I see a man wearing running clothes and wrap-around sunglasses emerge from the trees on an adjacent trail. He was middle-aged, fit and looks serious in his short-shorts and light running longsleeve. I could tel this wasn't a weekend mountain run. He wasn't just seeing the sights. This guy meant business.

Sheepishly, I approached him and asked my assumption.

"What are you training for?" I posed in the most masculine tone I could muster.

"White River" he replied.

I had no idea what that was but shot back with a quick "Oh, yeah" and a nod, then reconsidered.

"What is that?"

He must have sensed my confusion but offered offered only slightly more detail.

"White River 50"

And then, like a Olympic ghost or a mountain goat with a Garmin, he ran back into the woods, and down off Tiger Mt. I never saw him again. Luckily I wrote down what he shared with me and was determined to figure out this puzzle.

When I got home I googled "White River 50 race" and immediately got what I figured had to be the bullseye. That guy was training for the White River 50, a 50-mile trail endurance run held on Crystal Mt, just adjacent to Mt. Rainier on a figure eight course. Over two big climbs the race had over 17,400' of ascent and descent. Held in late July, the race was six months away.

While I had never run a trail race, and had yet to complete a 50k (the standard entry distance for an ultramarathon), within a day or two I committed and paid my race entry fee. I was convinced that I could prepare.

Instead of fear, I was excited. In the same way that I had jumped into weightlifting and hiking, I jumped into ultra running. Over the coming weeks I researched and found the Rome Marathon (yup, the when in spot) and decided that I would take a side tour on a trip to Italy and make that my first full marathon. A few months later I found a trail 50K Lost Lake. The race turned out to brutally difficult due to technical trail and 8,000' of climbing packed into ~31 miles. Despite a twisted ankle at mile 19, I 'death marched' the last 13 miles to a finish. Ain't no way I was quitting!

After crossing the finish line at White River in 10:28:40, I immediately thought "I will do this four more times". And I did.

The kid who wasn't athletic. Who couldn't dribble, hit or score had just became an ultramarathoner at the Lost Lake 50k. And that's pretty cool. A few months later an even bigger goal was realized.

Just days after my 29th birthday I successfully battled my way through the stunning White River 50 Mile Endurance in 10:28:40 seconds. While drinking views of Mt. Rainier just across the valley from the run, I was patient with my body on the climbs. I put my head down and trotted when my body wouldn't perform. The race director Scott's guidance rang loud in my head, "micromanage the course". When I could run, I ran. When I had to walk, I walked.

But eventually. I made it to the finish. While I never saw the mythical athlete at the race I met atop Tiger Mountain six months earlier, I silently thanked him. Whether he was real or imagined. After finishing I also immediately committed to myself that I would run this race for a total of five times. That concept just sounded cool.

Over the coming years, each summer I returned to White River. In 2014, I dropped halfway when the person I was running with fell ill, and in 2015 I had to skip the event due to travel. It took seven years, but in 2016 I finally scored my fifth finish in a time of 10:41:40. Not my fastest WR, but I had set a goal and realized it. In my eyes, that was HUGE. I had become a runner; a trail runner; an ultramarathoner!

Over the following years I would run dozens more trail races and start to build an Ultrasignup profile I was proud of including many more 50k, 50 -ile and 100k races. I even finished five 100-mile races on some wild mountain courses including a particularly challenge one call IMTUF, each time earning a fancy belt buckle as a souvenir.

I'm now closing in on a decade of running and continue to learn from the adventure. I've found a place to complete, an identity as an athlete and a humbling practice I get to grow from, always.

For those reading this who might not think they are an athlete, or that they can't feel at home in movement or in sport. Just keep looking! I promise you'll find it. Humans are an athletic species. We were designed for this. Just because you can't hit a ball with a stick, doesn't mean you can't do great things. Just keep trying. Keep exploring. You'll find your fitness, and it probably won't even take 27 years like it did for me.

Three years ago I was unemployed, my wife had just left me out of the blue, and my dog Luna was showing signs that her cruciate tendon was giving way, requiring her second surgery. She couldn't walk.

My world was on fire and I desperately needed a escape, even if it was for just a weekend.

That distraction came in Idaho.

Months earlier I had registered for the beasty IMTUF 100 trail race. While my spirits were crushed from the recent tailspin and my body was undertrained, I decided to catch a ride with my friend, Nick, who was registered as well.

"I need this for me" I thought.

Mega Swap Foot means I couldn't walk without suffering

Layers of tape did little to pad or protect

Nick and I met in Tacoma and started the long, winding eight-hour drive through Washington and Idaho to Burgdorf Hot Springs, a rustic retreat just outside of McCall. On race morning the first 25 miles on trail flew by. The second marathon included water crossings where my feet became bloated and worn down by the "moon dust"—silt piled high on the single track trail. I ended up getting a severe case of swamp foot and DNF'd at mile 52, just before the climb up Snow Slide.

I failed. I was a failure.

That's at least how I felt on the drive home to Seattle with Nick. My spirits were crushed, but I was at least grateful for the miles with friends and sights on the trail. It was nice to get out of the house and put my thoughts on something other than the weight I was shouldering.

Within two weeks I started my new job. Whew.

Over the next three years I healed, grew, loved and ran. Luna got her surgery and healed up 100%. I built the life that I desired and found new adventures—tough ones, too. I ran around Mt. Rainier on the Wonderland Trail, set a new PR at Beacon Rock 50K, and even participated in the first-ever Mt. Baker Ultra, a 50-mile run from Concrete, Wa to a summit of Baker and back.

After deferring my IMTUF race entry in 2016 due to a poor run at White River 50, I signed up for this Idaho challenge again in early January of this year. I had no idea where life would take me over the next nine months, but I felt like I needed to give that run a try once more. I needed an ending to my story, no matter what it said.

A chilly or hot race briefing (depending on what side of the water you stood)

September came around faster than I thought, and in a flash I found myself back at Burgdorf last Friday. While I hadn't ramped up my training like I normally would for a 100, I was healthy and in an entirely different place than I was back in 2014—a stronger place.

When I arrived at the hot springs and stepped out of my rented minivan I surprised to need a long sleeve so early in the evening. It was cold, but I saw friendly faces which calmed my nerves. The Seattle crew was in full force: Ben, Sudheer, Ely, Kaytlyn, and Katherine, and Linda from Vancouver. While the weather was cooler than I remembered, I had brought gear that I hoped would get me through the night.

After a quick dip with lovely Colorado peeps in the boiling Burgdorf pools, I retired to my minivan and called it a night. Tomorrow my future would be written. Or I guess, the next, next day.

On race morning I felt neither strong nor weak. I was just present. At 6 am, the race director Jeremey gave the signal and we headed out into the darkness. The air was freezing, but we moved swiftly, climbing up the ridge.

My plan was to take the race ten miles at a time. I wouldn't worry about the finish. I planned to run from aid station to aid station. Patience, combined with quality wool and poly blend socks packed in drop bags would get me there. At each aid, I'd then change socks, power my feet with talc if they got wet and manage my aches and bumps one step at a time. This was how I would combat the challenges I faced three years earlier.

Saving you from all the play-by-play over the next 98 miles, I'm choosing just a few moments to share.

Fall Creek Aid Station Mile 35

I'm doing surprisingly well. My body didn't hurt despite running at elevation and navigating what were previously described as gruesome obstacles like the Terrible Terrance Trail, a connector stretch of loosely defined rock and dirt connecting two proper trails. I felt fine as I climbed up past 7,500'.

Frosty trees and a cloud bank far below. Everyone just stopped, pulled out a camera if they were carrying one and captured the stunning view.

This steep monster was tough going up and down

Lake Fork Aid Station Mile 43.7

Nearly halfway done, I was proud of how I managed my clothing and nutrition and was prepared for a cold night. However I knew the next 11 miles would be a tough stretch. I climbed with other runners into the darkness, up, up and up for what felt like 10,000 ft into the sky on extremely rocky and wandering trail. The true ascent was only about 2,000' but we topped out at 7,800 in the deepest of night. The descent down to the Snow Slide Aid Station was nearly as difficult as the climb up. I even found a runner from St. Louis who was turned around, confused by a marker above and below.

"Follow me." I said.

Eventually I made it down. Snow Slide was the very place that I had failed three year earlier. That stretch of trail took a lot more than I expected, but I arrived with a spirit of defiance. I made it.

You won’t break me.

At this point we were deep into the night and my biggest challenge wasn't exhaustion, injury or busted feet. My malady was something more domestic: I was sleepy! Not exhausted. I still had the will and power to go on. I just couldn't stop yawning and my eyes weighed a ton. After taking a few steps, my eyelids would slide shut and I'd stumble off the trail. Coffee, 'No Doze' and food did nothing to shake me awake. Crap!

I ended up taking three or four micro-naps at aid stations over the next 10-15 miles. I'd lay in the heating tent and close my eyes for five or six minutes just to try to get past the sleepies and yawnies. After these micro-naps, I'd stumble on to the next aid and repeat. It was only the light of the morning that woke me awake with any permanently.

Now daybreak, it was at this time that I did the math and didn't think I'd be able to make the cut-off at Chinook at mile 86.3. I grappled with that reality for miles and came into Victor Creek Aid Station at mile 77.4 grumpy and defeated. I wasn't entirely broken, but I wasn't 100% either. I would soon have to make a decision on my future. Dark thoughts crept in.

"Would I fail again?" I thought.

"Would I embarrass myself in the eyes of friends and family?"

I soldiered on and walked/trekked to Willow Basket Aid Station at mile 83. When I arrived I had yet to make a decision on whether to try to make the Chinook cut-off of 12:45pm or not, 2.9 miles away. The wonderful volunteer helped me with food and water.

"Can I make it?" I asked her in a frustrated tone.

"If you run... maybe." she replied honestly.

...and so I RAN. I ran hard. I did some Forest Gump-style bolting.

The sun was out and I pushed up and around the valley, watching my milage and time. I knew it would be VERY close to making it to the aid station under the cut-off so I did everything I could to speed down the trail. For the first time in the race I put on tunes—Kanye—and tried to navigate the silty single-track while searching with my eyes for what looked like a check point.

I passed tourists who gave me beta. "About a mile away!" they shouted.

I continued to push, turn switchbacks and speed up and down trails. Finally I saw the aid station, and checked my watch. It read Sunday, 12:30pm—15 minutes before the cutoff.

I made it!

Volunteer Matt Stebbins helped me with my pack and provided me with food and water. I felt like I was almost back to Burgdorf. However, I had calculated the milage incorrectly. I thought I had a mere ten miles left. Matt corrected me. "You have 17 miles."

Ugh. F*ck.

While I made it to the aid before the cutoff, I now had to solider the energy to make it back to the hot springs. I harnessed my anger, frustration and disappointment to push down the trail. I now ran hard not because I HAD to, but because I was angry at the anthropomorphized-race. I hated it. And so I ran.

Who needs Gu when you’re grumpy?

We had to make a MINDLESS loop, grab an "x" on our bib with a marker, and then run back to the last aid. Joel = not a fan.

Working my another runner, Jenny from Mammoth Lakes, CA, she and I climbed up through the valley up to Loon Lake, an entirely unnecessary out-and-loop-and-back where we had to mark our bibs with a special red marker to show we did the full milage. We then heading back to the Willow Basket Aid Station. After a quick snack I headed out with a pack of six runners the last ten miles, climbing up and out of the wilderness. Feeling powerful, I pushed to the front of the group, and eventually sped forward alone.

At this point, I was incensed. I was going to punish my legs and give it all I could, or fail trying. I had about three hours to do the ten miles. It was doable, but I didn't want to lave anything up to chance. I climbed up on fire roads and ran down with intent. Eventually I made it to the Ruby Meadows Trailhead at mile 100.8, and connected with humanity again at the road.

Now I had just two miles to Burgdof, and a beer, and a buckle. 

The last two miles were on road. Trucks and cars passed and cheered us on. Some were race volunteers or family. Others seemed to be just visitors to the area who recognized something special was happening. The beasts made had made it through the darkness.

As I ran the last mile, my form tightened and I got a little emotional. I started to choke up. The feelings were flowing not for any one reason. I just needed to "feel" for a second. No tears came, but I felt quivers of emotions.

I passed the finish in 76th place, just an hour and quarter before the 36-hour cutoff. Of the 127 runners who started, 86 finished and 41 did not make it past the cutoffs or chose to drop, a DNF rate of 47%. Probably a common percentage for a Hardrock-qualifier of this caliber.

Surprisingly I wasn't hungry or hurt after the race. My little toes on each foot were worn into blisters, but other than that I was feeling fine. After a bath in the hot spring tub, I changed clothes, drank a beer, expressed my gratitude to the race directors Brandi and Jeremy, and then drove down to Boise making it to 10 Barrel Brewing by 9:45pm for dinner. It's back to the real world.

IMTUF 100 took me three years, 34:46:27 to complete. I am eternally grateful to the race directors Brandi and Jeremy, to the dozens of volunteers who sacrificed so much, to the sweeps who cleared the course, and to the neighbors who cheered on these mutants who visit annually to see just how TUF they really are.

Nailed it! My first 100 finish in four years. It didn't hurt. It hurt. And then it didn't matter.

Almost exactly two years ago I teamed up with an ultra buddy and ran the 92-mile Wonderland Trail around Mt. Rainier. The three-day adventure was tough, scenic and filled with almost every terrain possible. When photos of the shorter (and dare I say more scenic) Timberline Trail started filling my social feed, I knew I needed to plan an outing on the 42-mile route.

Excited for the miles and views to come, I layered on my running gear at the Silver Ridge Ranch in Easton. My tent was perched next to a enclosure for horses. Their grunts and movements broke the early morning quiet. While I debated whether to bring my Black Diamond z-poles or not and an extra water bottle, luckily I sided with carrying the extra gear. Soon I would need it.

The 50K course climbs out of Easton and rolls up and over local peaks: Domerie Divide, Thomas Mtn, French Cabin Mtn, Little Joe Lake, Thorp Mtn, and of course, Kachess Ridge (AKA The Cardiac Needles). I've been over the course before as part of the much longer Cascade Crest 100, but today we'd be approaching the trails from a different direction. Things would look less familiar. After a humorous race briefing from director Rich White, we were off.

Cut to six miles into the run, I was alone atop a ridgeline searching up and down for a course marker. "Nothing?!?", I retraced my steps and attempted to find the orange tape flickering in the wind.

"Nothing."

I was along for almost an hour as I proceeded forward along the top of the ridge and down a scree field. I saw what looked like fresh steps from a runner in front of me so I proceeded forward, hoping I'd see a competitor just steps away. My search turned up nothing, so I turned back.

Rich had warned us to load the GPS track into our phones and watches, but I hadn't planned that far ahead. I trusted the printed map in hand and my wits to guide me.

It's a trail race. How can I get lost?

I had almost given up hope and planned to run back off the mountain and reverse my steps to Easton when I realized my error. About 5.5 miles in there is a sharp left atop the ridge. No ribbon was present, but a trail nameplate was facing the opposite direction. I matched it up with printed instructions and there it was: Domerie Divide Trail.

I picked up my pace but realized that I was now well over 90-minutes behind the pack, and would have trouble making the cut-off at the first aid station. Adding to my challenge, I was now out of water. While I carried three collapsable bottles in my vest, they were all sucked dry. I had plenty of food, but ZERO hydration on a hot, cloudless day atop a ridge.

I did some more math and decided that I could navigate to the 25K cut-off, and then run back to the start from there. No ultra, but I had bigger issues to deal with. Within a few miles, I was proceeding down the ridge and logging process along the singletrack trails.

Just as I was getting back to Easton, and the finish line, the 50K winner passed me. Matt Urbanski looked fresh and strong despite having traversed over 10,000' of climbing and descending.

I minute later I exited the woods and ran around the perimeter of the Easton airfield, the sun baking down on the asphalt and heating the air a dozen degrees above the forest. A minute later I crossed the finish, high-fived Rich and saluted the inflatable wacky waving tube guy.

This was the oddest race I've ever run, in fact it didn't even feel like race due to my trail misfortune. I ran with no one, got no aid and spent most of the day hunting for a trail that didn't exist. I ended up running exactly 20.0 miles, and am proud to claim first place in the unofficial Needles 32K.

“I may have underestimated this” I thought, forcing a reluctant chuckle as I fought uphill on a scree field at 5,200 feet in the Central Cascades.

I was all by myself for miles, but I felt like speaking aloud would be soothing. I wasn’t scared or panicking at this moment, but I was definitely managing my emotions and started to take account of my resources. A Gu shot, Outdoor Research Helium hard shell, gloves, hat, water filter, iPhone…

The "fun" part of the run had ended hours ago and now I just needed to get home safely.

For the past 11 hours I had been running, trekking and stumbling solo from the East Fork Foss Trailhead off Highway 2 southbound towards my goal of Snoqualmie Pass. There my buddy Laura would pick me up, we’d share high-fives, toast drinks and enjoy a feast at Commonwealth. My problem was I was still miles away, and hours late.

As I climbed up over the notch in the trail close to Lunin Peak I didn’t have to look at my watch to know it was between 24-25 minutes past 7 pm. I hold no innate, supernatural ability to calculate the passage of time, but I could tell from the sky that the sun was setting and knew it would be lights out at 7:30. I was now facing the night with just a micro emergency headlamp and was low on calories, water and clothing. Yes, I did underestimate the La Bohn Traverse Ultrapedestrian Wilderness Challenge.

How did I get here?

It started in a running shop five months earlier at the local favorite Seven Hills Running. There the ultrapedestrian couple themselves, Ras and Kathy, and their wild compatriots introduced the newly selected UWC routes for 2016. I was inspired.

Among the night's presenters local mountain runner and alpinist Arya Jonathan Farahani described the La Bohn route, showing PowerPoint slides of the run he had charted the season before.

As an alternative to the longer, but 100% trail PCT, Arya’s route linked well-maintained trails with six miles of off-trail travel and extremely rustic routes to make a 30-mile course with 9,000 ft of climbing.

Imagined or true-to-life I recall Arya promoting the sights, adventure and ease of the experience over and over. Probably in reality he guaranteed vistas, but also warned against the tough terrain and route-finding. I guess I was too drunk on the promise of the outing, to yield his warnings.

“Wow. I could do this” I thought while seated at Seven Hills.

“Instead of depending on a race, I get to make my own adventure” I thought.

I had never attempted a UWC route, but from Arya’s brief description of the point-to-point run it seemed like a lovely weekend outing. Fast forward to last week, I knew I had a weather window that looked promising and a buddy who could crew me for the P2P run. Saturday was my “go” day so I announced my plans on the UWC Facebook Group (because FB makes it real), updated my Delorme InReach and watch with maps, and geared up my Ultimate Direction Wasp pack.

While picking up Laura on Saturday morning I realized I forgot two pieces of gear I normally bring on off-trail outings: 1) shoe gators to keep twigs and rocks out of my Hokas and 2) Black Diamond Z-poles. Laura didn’t have the gear to lend and I viewed those as nice-to-haves anyway, so I just picked her up and headed north.

IMG_9958

The East Fork Foss Trailhead is just a mile or so off Highway 20. While the parking lot was full, Laura was just dropping me so it didn’t matter. We hugged and then I headed south into the Necklace Valley as she pulled away with my dog Luna wagging in the back.

The thing about the Ultrapedestrian Wilderness Challenges are that they’re unmarked courses and come with only general route information—no course markings or lovely detailed GPX files. You depend on your fellow runners to share local knowledge and trail beta to ensure you’re bringing the right gear, have accurate maps and know where to turn. The routes often link together trails, but in many instances the phrase is used in a very loose fashion. Some of the paths see more goats than people. And the people who do try them are mostly goat, anyway.

For the first six miles I ran on the Necklace Valley Trail, rolled through lush forest and aptly-named Jade Lake. I encountered a handful of hikers doing loop and out-and-back hikes. Everyone was in good spirits. The sky was bird blue with a few puffs of white for accent. Just past Opal Lake the route takes a hard left and changes from defined trail to goat path. The only way I knew to go this direction was because I had downloaded multiple GPX files from other UPC runners. Within a few minutes I was cairn-finding on a rock field that ascended up to the namesake La Bohn Gap.

Here...we...go.

IMG_9898

My body felt great and I was excited to get the off trail section done as early in the day as possible, but as I climbed the blue skies now were replaced by heavy cloud cover that hugged the very mountain I was traversing. Within just a few minutes of climbing on a bolder field the intensity went from run-in-the-park to PAY ATTENTION AND BE PRESENT. The sky darkened. The air was dry but the wind picked up as I climbed to the pass, a flattened ridge of slab stone and ponds wrapped in heavy white clouds.

The ascending wasn’t the hard part, staying on “trail” was. As I topped out on the pass I knew I had to make a series of turns up and around ponds and rock outcroppings, but the fog was so heavy that I couldn’t run for fear of going off course, or worse, falling off a drop. This was bonkers and I immediately knew I made a mistake by not bringing a physical compass, and instead depended on my watch and InReach electronic devices to tell me direction. If they failed, I could easily get turned around in these conditions. I was eating cloud soup and rocks, and dining solo.

IMG_9911.jpg

At mile ten I hit was looked like the far side of the pass I was excited to a see a bolder field that descended out of the weather. Seeing color, not just black and white, also brought me a boost of confidence. Whew. The climb down was slow, but I didn’t want to make a speed record. I figured if I broke my ankle on the descent, no one would happen across me so I took each step with intention.

IMG_9941

Finally, at mile 12 I connected back with the trail at Williams Lake. While the path wasn’t runnable, every step had confidence—a big relief. From there I connected with the Dutch Miller Gap Trail and rolled next to the Middle Fork of the Snoqualmie. This is where I put in my fastest miles and also where I chatting up a few hikers who were doing multi-day outings.

After crossing the river I made my way to Goldmyer Hot Springs, a place of hippie respite and sulfuric springs. I stopped and chatted with the camp host and got my pack filled with water. In my mind I knew I was running way behind schedule, but thought that I had the hardest part behind me. I knew I had to ascend up to Snoqualmie Pass, but hey, its just trail. No big deal. That’s when I checked my printed instructions again and GPS map stored in my InReach.

Wait, I’m not really taking the trail up…it looks like I’m just going up the side of the mountain. Ummm…

At mile 23, you leave Goldmyer at 1,800 feet and immediately begin climbing on the long, long forgotten, forsaken "trail".

How bad is this trail? Let’s personify a storm. Mr. Storm, ate bad take-out food of trees and vegetation. Later, in the middle of the night Mr. Storm spend hours and hours taking trips to the bathroom (aka scamble up from Burntboot Creek) defecating and vomiting plant material everywhere on an already poorly kept lavatory.

This is my way of saying that the trail was a mess with dozens of huge blowdowns and lots of route-finding. Only when you get to about 3,700 feet does the trail become less dense and reasonable, but at this point I was tired and concerned about how much light I had left in the day.

So there I was.

I made it over the notch next to Red Mountain and now was descending towards Red Mountain Lake where if the trail description was right would bring me to the coveted PCT trail. All I focused on at this point was using the last few moments of glow in the sky to get to that trail.

I squinted to see the rustic trail in front of me, but finally reluctantly strapping on my emergency Black Diamond headlamp. This was admitting that I was both in a worse situation that I expected, and also that I hadn’t prepared for this run properly—that I should have starting earlier and brought the right gear.

The one tool I did bring that proved immensely beneficial was my InReach Explorer. It allowed me to share my location with friends in real-time and also to message Laura letting her know I was safe, but hours behind schedule. I knew if things got bad, or if I got lost I could also use it to get help so that significantly tamped down my anxiety level, too.

After death marching for a few miles and down 2,000 feet I finally made it to the PCT. I was close to home. However, my GPS trek routed me to the Old Commonwealth Trail, instead of the PCT for the last mile of the run, so I spent a good 15 minutes wandering in the total darkness, now navigating entirely by the light of my iPhone. #Fail.

I was SO close, but couldn’t find the trail anywhere due to a half dozen fallen trees. Just bog, tree and me making circles. Laura messaged me "Getting close?"

I finally get my whereabouts and make it to the parking lot where Laura was waiting for me. Sure, I was happy to survive this more-intense-than-expected outing, but I had more pressing concerns when I hoped in the car. It was 9:30 and the Commonwealth was closing in just a few minutes. We needed to make it there STAT!

IMG_9953

Yah! I survived, got to enjoy a meal at Commonwealth before they closed, and learned an important lesson about route research and gearing for wilderness adventures. (Just do it.) I hope to never make the mistakes I described above ever again.

Thank you!

Huge thanks to Laura for crewing me, Arya for designing this route, Jessica Kelley for offering route guidance, Ras & Kathy for dreaming up and hosting the UWC concept, and to the ultra community for just being a group of awesome goats.

While it was one of last year’s Ultrapedestrian Wilderness Challenge routes (trails don’t go out of style, right?), Chinook Pass looked to me to be the best place to dip my toe into the UP water. Or really, both feet. While I had heard of these tough, self-supported routes for some time, and have known Kathy and Ras for years, I had never attempted one of these running challenges.
The Chinook Pass route looked the like the perfect introduction. The 31-mile loop route is easy to access from just outside of Rainier National Park in the Wenatchee Forest, is entirely on marked trails and includes a trek on the PCT. Triple win!

[tweet https://twitter.com/joelwho/status/787125941193498624]

The night before the run I loaded the GPS track into my watch and filled my pack with essentials—water filter, 2-liter water bladder, cliff bars for hours, etc. The weather looked perfect—one of those goldilocks days—not too hot and not too cold with a bonus of sun for miles. After telling my roommate where I was headed and who to call in case I never returned, I walked my pup Luna a little past 6am and then drove out to the backside of Mt. Rainier. At the trailhead I met another skinny old man wearing Altras and a race vest (a twin of how I sometimes view myself).

This mountain runner sported a hydration pack and Altras, so I knew he’d probably spent a few miles on the trails. A quick conversation with him confirmed my guess. John and I shared pleasantries for a minute, then he headed off in the opposite direction and I proceeded to cross a bridge that arches across highway 410 before dropping down at the start of the trail. As I headed out in the morning air a touch of fog rolled over the pass and burned off in dramatic fashion. The air—so fresh and so clean (start humming Outkast in 3…2..).

Now because this was a loop trail you could either experience the course in clockwise or counter-clockwise directions. John suggested I go in a clockwise direction so I took his advice and began the loop floating down the rolling trail. Instantly I was rewarded with beautiful meadows, mossy trees and alpine lakes, and I had yet to even enter Rainier National Park. The first six miles or so were all in the national forest. I knew this for certain because there were a half dozen other hikers out on the trail and they trekked along with dogs, something that is prohibited at most locations in the park. (Luna, I’m sorry, we’ll have to come back. If I knew, you’d join me on a lovely out-and-back.)

The miles just flew by mostly because for the first few hours the route descended in a series of steps. The pass is at 5,800 feet but by the time you hit mile 19 I was at 2,200—my type of running. I stopped for plenty of photos and to enjoy the scenery. Moss, trees and sky--this is why I love trails.

One of the most attractive qualities of the UWC concept for me is the fact that it’s not a traditional race. If this was a 50k competition, or really any distance, I would feel pressured by my own internal persistence to limit my snack breaks and chit-chat. Instead I would push myself to get across the finish line as fast as possible—giving up sightseeing just to shave a few minutes off my time.

For me this practice really makes no sense because I’m not going to win any races or grab endorsements, but races just do that to me. The Ultrapedestrian Wilderness Challenge though is different. I had permission to meander, to investigate lakes and to pause for photos. I wasn’t racing anyone else, especially myself.

At mile 20 I began to climb—up, up, up. Around this time I also ran into a few hikers completing the same loop I was running, but they were hiking over three days instead of fitting the miles into a single push. Both were engineers with Boeing. As a group we reflected on the day—remarking on how perfect the weather was, how scenic the vistas were and how lucky we were to enjoy the day outside. When I wrapped up my break and began pressing on the couple offered me a quick, but ominous warning.

“There are lots of blow-downs in the last five miles—like 50!”

“Thanks!” I called back, but as I took in the number they shared I didn’t fully believe their count. So far the trail had only a scattering of trees crossing its path.

“It’s probably like a dozen and they’re just being dramatic”, I thought.

In reflection, this mental note did not take into account that the couple were trained ENGINEERS—as in people known for their expert precision and attention to detail. Soon I’d learn the truth.

Miles 20-25 climbed, but at a reasonable grade. Just a little past mile 25 I turned onto the Eastside Trail and began to encounter fallen trees. First, just a handful of branches—easy to step over. Soon thereafter smaller, young trees also crossed the path. Within a half mile I began to enter the meat of the blow-downs. Yeah, so this is what the hikers were talking about. Tree after downed tree. Each required me to climb up and over, down and around, or if I'm lucky, duck under.

There were fallen trees that dropped parallel onto the trail to obliterate any discernible way forward. I crawled, climbed and scrapped my way over each mountain of branches, dirt and roots. Each one I passed, I made a mental note, “5….6….7”. The Eastside trail was definitely not loved by the Forest Service. They might just have a vendetta against this section of dirt because it was obvious no one had cleared it in years, NAY!, decades.

After it was all said and done, I counted exactly 52 blown downs on the trail making the final five miles of the Chinook Pass Ultrapedestrian Challenge a beasty affair. All in all, the day was perfect. I got to spend it outside in a beautiful place, challenge myself on the trails and made it home in time for beer and pizza with my pup.

Thanks to Jessica Kelley for intel on the trail, and of course to Ras and Kathy for finding special outings around the region and for promoting the practicing of exploring the outdoors.

We laid down on the deck outside of the Round Valley Ranger Station. With my body splayed out on the wood planking, I felt the full warmth of the brilliant sun shining down from above. In the cool mountain air the rays felt…GLORIOUS!

The previous five plus hours were spent laboring up eight and a half miles and 7,000 feet of ascent from the desert floor of Palm Springs on the Skyline Trail (AKA Cactus to Clouds). It was midday when we arrived at the ranger station, our last checkpoint and water source before topping out.

Instead of immediately pushing on through the final five and half miles to the summit of Mount San Jacinto, my comrades Andrew, Rhea and I took an impromptu nap on the deck. Meanwhile Sawna, our fourth adventurer, went inside the ranger station to inquire about future wilderness training opportunities she had just heard about. Sawna was obviously feeling a bit more energized that I was.

A park ranger walked out and observed us while we rested our eyes.

“Are you ok” he asked while staring down at our prone bodies laying on his deck.

“Yeah. We’re just…sleeping.”

I replied in a tone that implied that it was an entirely normal time and place to be dead asleep...in public. It wasn’t on both accounts, but hey, we weren't exactly caring about social norms at that moment. We were just tired.

After dismissing the khaki authorities we caught a few more z’s until Sawna came out and poked us awake. Touching my hand, she declared “It’s time to go". Reluctantly my deckmates and I opened our eyes and obeyed, pulled on our packs and readying our bodies for the final ascent through the snow.

Onward!

As I mentioned above, my day had started much earlier. Sawna and I had left her home in Hollywood a little after 2:30am Friday morning (yes, I was a little slow and might have caused a late departure). Coffee, tunes and excitement powered us on our drive down to Palm Springs where we met up with Rhea and Andrew—friends from LA—who had stayed in the area the night prior. Dawning headlamps and chock full of almond butter and excitement we began the climb upward from the desert floor at just past 5am, following white spots painted on the dry boulders.

Within a few hours the sun rose, warming the air and painting colors across the landscape. The setting was gorgeous, but the climb was unending. Unlike most trails that have some undulations, rolling up and down even as the trail overall climbs, Cactus to Clouds absolutely did not. Every step was up, up, up and the hours took their toll.

By the time we got to the Round Valley Ranger Station, my climbing muscles were spent. Too tired to even move my arms, my trekking poles dragged by my sides. We were all showing some amount of exhaustion. Lacking poles, the rest of my party even took up sticks to help with the climb. These were both used as ascending tools and played double-duty as pokers to probe holes in the dry grown filled with snakes/rats/scary-things as we labored upward.

(We didn't really harass wildlife, we just joked about it.)

Quiet Joel

While our pace was slow, my lungs still felt underpowered. I did my best to put on a good face for the rest of the team. The truth though was that I was hurting.

I think Sawna caught onto my suffering because she noticed that “Quiet Joel” had come out to make an appearance. You see, when I’m really hurting I don't complain outloud and mouth-off. Instead I stop joking or talking entirely, and focus my energy on putting one foot in front of the other in silence

"Just keep moving" I told myself.

By the time we got to the Round Valley Ranger Station, I had spent at least an hour pondering if I had the energy to continue on to the summit. “Am I slowing them down? Should I just stay here and let them go ahead?”

Luckily, water food and some good 'ol fashion deck sleeping did its wonders. After my quick nap, I felt I had what was needed to climb the last five plus miles to the 10,834' summit of San Jacinto Peak.

It's Snow TimeWithin a half mile after departing the ranger station we were now at over 7,000' and were trekking fully in snow. Luckily the conditions were perfect.

The snow underfoot was neither too soupy to be mush or too cold to be slick ice. We just told stories, admired the view and kept trekking on. Andrew brought his GoPro and occasionally asked us to run for an action photo or video clip. As soon as the shutter closed, we reverted to our slower trekking hike. Luckily, we were still making progress.

On the final ascent up the ridge a PCT backpacker caught up to us. Melissa was a badass Canadian hiker sporting pink spandex shorts and well-worn Altra Lone Peaks. She was taking a day trip with fellow Pacific Crest Trail thru-hikers to top out on San Jacinto before returning to their noth-bound hike (what a "rest" day?!?). Melissa, (watch the video below to discover her trail name) not only caught up to us on our climb above Round Valley, but did so while carrying a full 60lb+ pack.

Looking for a challenge and a great story Sawna offered to carry her load to the summit, however Melissa respectfully declined. She didn't want to loose face in front of the other hikers (or her reputation for being a badass).

We all took one final brief rest below the ridge and grabbed a sip of water before making the final climb to the top.

The summit was windless and scenic--amazingly so on both accounts. The alpine air was cold, but otherwise the conditions were perfect for a few group photos and for taking a moment to revel in what we had achieved. We had just climbed over 10,000' in less than 14 miles, all straight up. Wow!

After a few more photos, we reversed course down to the Round Valley where we stopped at an oasis-like resort. Sawna's promise of a bar and food were spot on. Our party of four downed pints of frosty, well-earned beer while snacking on humus. Today was a good day.

Instead of running the final stretch of trail down to the valley below, we paid $12 each and took the sky tram to the Palm Springs below. The ride was thrilling, and didn't require us to run or climb, so I was all smiles. It was the best money I've spend in years.

Thank you to Andrew, Rhea, and Sawna for allowing me to tag along on their adventure. It was the perfect mix of suffering and joy, and with the best people.

Trouble

As the daylight faded at the Zion 100, I paced down a dusty gravel road atop Gooseberry Mesa. Having logged the last dozen miles looping back and forth on the 5,000ft mesa, I was happy to now be away from the cliffside and to be on a safe, downward-pitched road leading off the rear of the mountain. Despite my more stable ground, I was still in trouble.

Having run 50 miles over the past 12 hours on hard-packed desert clay and slick rock, the bottom of both of my feel were now blistered and swollen. They ached in my crumbling Hokas and each step sent white hot electric waves of pain up my tired legs. I had done what I could to prevent this—changed socks, avoided puddles, rested at each aid station, massaging my chronically crushed little toes, and as a last resort, popped Ibuprofen. Still, I was in this situation…again.

You see while running my last 100-miler—the aptly named IMTUF (Idaho Mountain Trail Ultra Festival)—I was stopped at mile 52 and for the same reason: wrecked feet. Was this going to be another failure? Another DNF?

When I first started running ultras back in 2010 I set a personal goal of earning ten buckles, the awards given to 100-miler finishers. Within a few years I earned finishes at Lumberjack, Cascade Crest (2x) and Southeast Washington’s Badger Mountain 100. At the time I was on a roll. However, my last completed 100 was now almost three years ago. Zion was supposed to restart my mission towards ten. Unfortunately with every step further right now my body told me I would have to wait for my fifth piece of runner "jewelry". Crap!

Zion 100 is a race held in the sweeping desert landscape of Hurricane, Utah, just outside of Zion National Park, and a few hours drive from Vegas. I had traveled here with my buddy Nick, a wickedly-fast Ohio transplant who now trained by doing 4x Mt. Si climb repeats and other brutal training outside of Seattle. The day before the race he and I hiked the surprisingly intense Angels Landing in Zion National Park. Clinging up chains bolted to the cliffside, we skirted past crowds of visiting students out on spring break. Nick and I drank in views of the arid desert, but also pondered what the next day's weather would bring.

Weather

For the two weeks prior the race director Matt Gunn and his team had messaged runners warning us about a weather forecast growing worse by the day and even offered to transfer anyone's registration to next year if desired. Rare desert rain was expected with the potential to turn clay dirt hills into dangerous vertical slip-and-slides, requiring course-rerouting or worse, event cancellation. Nick and I just put our hope in the gods and kept our race plans for Zion. The evening before the race I went to bed early at our AirBNB in Huricane, Utah, just a town over from the race start. Fingers crossed for tomorrow. And shoes laces bowed for luck.

On race morning we woke early and began getting ready. I didn’t tell Nick that my legs felt dead, still sore from the Angels Landing climb the night before. Bad juju. It was 4am and instead of feeling energized and excited for an outing in the hills, I felt depleted. Knowing that things can change throughout a day of ultra running I just went through my normal routine: coffee, clothes, car, bus, race start. Ok, let’s do this.

It's Go Time

No briefing in the morning. The course had been explained by the race director the night prior. At a hair past 6am, Nick, myself and a few hundred other runners headed out into the darkness, a mixture of 100-mile and 100k runners. And so we ran and climbed.

For the race I wore my Petzl headlamp strapped to my forehead, an Ultimate Direction pack on my back and size 12 Hokas on my feet. The morning desert air was cool and the sky was a mix of clouds and with a few rare patches of blue. While rain was forecast, the race director said “There’s only a 40% chance. We just don’t know if that means there’s a 4 in 10 chance of precipitation or that 40% of the area will get hit.” Yikes.

The first hill up was the joyous sounding Flying Monkey. I was a middle link in a chain of runners working up the climb. Just one step at a time, I slowly made progress on the climb. Our lamps painted a snake down the trail in the early morning light. Beautiful.

The first 15 miles went as expected. I watched my pace, made sure I drank plenty to counter the dry desert air and started to see miles tick by. None came easy as they normally should during the first section of a 100, but then again I just thought my body needed time to warm up after a long plane and car ride.

To everyone’s benefit, the rain held throughout the morning.

Things started to change for me around mile 18. As we climbed up a hill called guacamole, my body started complaining (and no, not avocado hunger pains). First I noticed my breath become slightly labored and then my legs started to ach. This isn’t uncommon for me during a race, but my suffering was coming WAY too soon, as in 60-miles-too-early. I can death march into a finish sure. I shouldn’t START a race feeling like this.

While I expected climbs to take effort, I was surprised by another challenge: slickrock. The guacamole section of the run involved running on this terrible surface, bounding up and down on stone as the trail wove around mounts of cooled lava. You can never get into a rhythm and while the cumulative elevation change wasn’t huge, I began to tire from high stepping constantly. This was less than 20% into the race and I was struggling to keep my chi in check. What was going on?

I hate guacamole

I trotted into the guacamole aid station with the best faker face on. "I’m ok", I told myself. "I’m just going through a moment", I thought with an effort to reassure. At the aid station a kind volunteer gave me ice that I tossed under my hat to cool my head (physically and figuratively). I rested for five minutes in a folding chair while refueling with electrolyte drink and cubed cantaloupe. Still not feeling revived, I banged down a half can of Mountain Dew. That should do SOMETHING?

I left the aid station at mile 25 and put in my headphones. I thought, “music and caffeine: DO YOUR MAGIC!” Finally, some momentum came to my legs and I picked up speed descending the hill. I could run again and leaned into the miles. Rihanna’s “Work” played on my shuffle as I bounded down the fire road. Finally I felt more in control. And it was perfect timing as I pushed towards the biggest climb of the day, the satirically-named Goosebump.

Was I reborn? We’ll see.

The ascent up Goosebump is steep, as in 2,000’ up in less than four miles. But honestly compared to the mindless loops on Guacamole, seeing progress in vertical feet climbed, and new views achieved wasn’t that bad. Mountains—I live for this shit!

The last section of the climb involves grabbing hold of fixed ropes that race organizers placed for protection. The lines were welcomed tools, but honestly optional in the dry conditionals. If it rained though the ropes would be the only way to get up, and more importantly, down. This could get scary.

After grabbing food, water and massaging my feet at the Gooseberry aid station, I started my Goosebump loops. This is like Guacamole on steroids—more climbing and descending on slickrock and looping past sheer cliffs, all the while following faint white markings painted on the stone slabs. It was both a mental and physical challenge to make sure you were headed in the right direction. Once again, my body started giving me signals.

You’re tired. You’re unmotivated.

Your feet hurt even thought its just 40 miles into the race.

You aren't made for this. You should try golf instead.

I was my worst enemy.

After finishing two winding loops atop the mesa, the day was getting long. I refueled at the Gooseberry aid station, and headed out on a ten mile out-and-back to the "cemetery". Aptly named.

As I started down the dirt road, I waved at runners coming in from the opposite direction. I tried to put on a smiling face, but my feet were screaming. Blisters had sprung up on the front and rear of each foot meaning all I could do was walk, and gingerly at that. I had the energy and my legs felt ok, but my feet were a mess. This was IMTUF all over again.

I pushed myself two miles down the road promising myself that something would change. It didn't. After a few more minutes, I knew what I had to do. I turned and headed back to the aid station. I planned to drop from the 100-miler and instead finish the 100k course.

The wind kicked up and cold rain dropped from the dark clouds above for about 20 minutes. How fitting?

"This sucks!" I exclaimed for no one but myself to hear.

I put on my jacket, zipped up to my chin and cinched the hood tight around my face. Wasn't the desert supposed to be warm and dry?

Turning Around

On my return to the aid station, NW ultra runner Kevin Karr and I passed on the trail. Kevin looked a little tired, but his will was unyielding. I explained that I was dropping to the 100k.

With that Kevin pushed on towards the cemetery, while I reversed course to finish out the 100k course. I was disappointed with myself.

The end of the race was what you'd expect. Hard.

The descent down the Goosebump climb was expectedly steep. The run out to the Virgin Desert aid station was literally the longest eight miles I could imagine. I climbed up and down mountain bike trails with other 100k runners and made chit-chat to help the hours go by quicker.

Along the way I met Jim, a father from just outside of Chicago and we shared complains about how long the miles felt. From our rear a set of friends from California joined us their lights dancing in the darkness. The sun had set so we all wore headlamps and searched the landscape for aid station lights. Nothing.

Eventually we did get to Virgin Desert. After fueling up on soup and soda, my new Chicago friend and I headed back out into the darkness. The trail to the finish wove around a canyon and included plenty of cliffs to avoid. No time to doze off!

The Finish

We spent two miles on a fire road and then finally had another four on trail before weaving back to the race start/finish. Emotionally I was spent. While it was now past midnight, race organizers were still up. The generator hummed, powering the lights and inflated finish line arch. I crossed the finish with a few labored steps, then searched for a seat. After over 62 miles of mesa running, I was done both emotionally and physically.

And damn did my feet hurt.

So, what did I learn?

Figure out my feet.
This means how I tape them, what socks I use and what shoes I lace up in. I can't keep beating my feet into bloody pulps and having them fail me 50% into a race.

More 100s?
I LOVE trail running. It is one of my favorite activities to do, and races lasting 30, 40 or 50 miles all still seem reasonable. But something happens when you aim for 100. It means that instead of suffering for maybe 10% of a run or race, I suffer for 40%. That's not actually something that I enjoy and can't say if its even worth it. Why not just have more fun, and forget my buckle goal? We'll see. I'll make a decision in a week or two.

It's not always about elevation
Both Zion races, the 100k or 100 miler, didn't have that much elevation gain. The 100 miler had less than 12,000' of climbing—nothing when it comes to ultras held in the Western U.S. And yet, it wasn't the big mesa climbs that got me, but the tiny up-and-downs that I found challenging. For my next race I'm going to explore the course description more to understand that the challenge isn't always vertical gain.

My next race on the books is the Beacon Rock 50k, a loved race and course on the Washington side of the Columbia Gorge. It's a race I've run before and enjoyed. Let's hope that I have a more successful run with less suffering. And yes, I'm buying new shoes.

The idea sounded preposterous. A honeymoon in Kenya? But my fiance was serious. We had discussed it several times in the past, but after spending the better part of a year planning a rustic wedding with 70 guests in the rural hills of south-central Washington state, the notion that my soon-to-be wife and I could make it to Africa by the end of the year sounded far-fetched. How could we afford this? And even if we could, I didn't think I had the mental space to plan another big outing.

Sophia and I had a mini-moon road trip set for Oregon, but the bigger adventure to visit Sophia's family in Kenya seemed like something we would have to put off for at least a few years. To my surprise, within just days of our wedding, a honeymoon in Kenya jumped from fantasy to fact. This is how it went down.

Instead of traditional gifts for our wedding, we collected contributions from family and friends using a service called Honeyfund, a virtual registry that collected cash gifts instead of toasters and ironing boards. To my surprise and our luck, the gifts from family and friends almost entirely paid for our round-trip airfare for Sophia and me from Seattle to Nairobi. After our wedding, I did the calculations and found tickets on British Airways for early January 2014.

We got flights, but where would we stay on our honeymoon? Luckily, Sophia's uncle and aunt, permanent residents of Kenya, offered to put us up in their home in Nanyuki (about three hours north of Kenya's capitol, Nairobi). This visit would also coincide with when Sophia's parents and sister would be in Kenya, meaning that the Walker clan will be together in the same city for the first time in decades.

As for Sophia and my honeymoon, the only unsettled business was what adventures we would pursue while we were in country. Run with the famed African Elephant while on safari? Hippo wrestling? Or explore the storied Kenyan Coast ripe Somali pirates?

"Let's climb Mt. Kenya," my wife suggested without a touch of hesitation. She had already been up the mountain a dozen years earlier, but now yearned to experience the adventure once more; this time with her new husband, me! It sounded ambitious, but soon enough I was packing fleeces and thermal layers along with my shorts and flip flops. Next stop: Kenya.

Mt. Kenya, an extinct volcano situated right dab in the center of the country is iconic. So much so, that the nation is named after the mountain, not the other way around. The mountain once stretched above 19,000ft, but over time erosion from wind and glacial movement ground down the peak into a smaller massif, or compact group of peaks. The highest point being Batian, a technical summit of 17,057ft. My wife and I would be aiming just slightly lower; the walking summit of Point Lenana at 16,355 feet.

Most visitors that attempt this route make the 30-mile round-trip outing over four days, resting at each hut along the trail to acclimate to the altitude. Our plans were different. We wanted to summit and return in just two days. Instead of hiring a guide company and porters, we reached out to a friend of a friend, Gabriel, who we commissioned as our guide. Having a smaller group and shorter itinerary meant we could go faster,

The Climb

On day one, Sophia, Gabrial and I started our hike around 7am from the Naro Moru gate, ascending the long, winding dirt road up to Met Station, a climb of a few thousand feet. The hike is full of wildlife--Colobus monkeys, Baboons and Warthogs watched from the sidelines as we trekked just over five miles to the first of the mountain huts.. After a brief break, we hiked on from Met Station to MacKinder's Hut, another 10k (20 total). Really the only water is at the huts. We carried more than enough.

That evening we slept in the bunks at MacKinders (14,000ft). At 3am we woke, made breakfast, tossed on a lights and headed out into the darkness. It wasn't warm by any means, but the wind that whipped the hut was surprisingly dry and temperate. I was expecting glacial air it wasn't that bad.

After a few hours of climbing scree switchbacks, we made it to the Austin Hut, less than 1,000 feet from Pt. Lenana, and nestled in the cavity of the massif. Batian and the other peaks loomed above. Our guide and us stopped for tea at the hut and waited about 45 minutes so we wouldn't summit in darkness. At around5:15, we were ready and headed back out into the darkness. The timing was perfect and we reached the summit just as the furthest edges of the sun peaked over the horizon. Beautiful.

The top at 16,355 is VERY cold. I wore insufficient gloves and my hands were burning by the time we decided to start descending.

The climb down was as expected. It went quick except for the last 4-5 miles as we hiked out on the dirt route towards the Naro Moru gate. It takes just forever. This will be the longest 7-8k you'll ever trek. Luckily, we eventually made it out--and with great stories to tell. I highly recommend the adventure. My only gripe is with the $220/person 4-day entry fee. If Sophia and I do it again, we'll just buy a day pass and summit and descend with light packs in the single day.

With the days now warm and long in the Pacific Northwest, how can one not look towards the mountains and islands, and dream of adventure? This was my inspiration two weeks ago when I was struck by the idea to take a bike trip to the local isle of escape, Bainbridge Island, located just a 20-minute ferry ride from Downtown Seattle. Nestled in the heart of Puget Sound, this destination offered exactly what my wife and I were seeking for a weekend getaway: a break from the city, a slower pace of life and wineries-a-plenty.
"We could camp out, and borrow a bike trailer and tow Luna and our gear!" I exclaimed to my wife who was laying in bed, settling down for the night when I was struck with the inspiration. I was excited by the prospect of a new outing together and the idea of riding bikes to escape the long queue of cars boarding the Bainbridge ferry. And because I would tow a trailer, Luna, our dog could join us on the trip, too!

"Can we talk in the morning?" Sophia asked in an understandably exhausted tone. I can't blame her. Even my excitement surprised me for this hour of the night. After a few more minutes of searching on my phone for Bainbridge parks and destinations, I retired for the evening.

The following morning, my search continued and I found camping options at Fay-Bainbridge State Park and secured a bike trailer engineered for children, but equally capable for towing dogs--borrowed from a running buddy. Lastly, I figured out a biking route that my wife Sophia felt comfortable with (less loud, dangerous highway, more scenic road). Sophia and I were going on our first overnight bike outing!

On Saturday morning, Sophia and I, with Luna in tow, departed for our mini-vacation. The weather was pleasant as we glided downhill towards the Ballard Bridge, and onto the trail leading to the ferry. While Sophia's picked up a flat in her front tire just a half-mile from the dock, we still made it to the ferry in time to buy tickets and board. A little after 9:30 a.m., our ferry pushed off, headed for Bainbridge. We were on our way.

10313312_993856806294_3940307070880691732_n

After docking, Sophia and I walked our bikes to the local bike shop located just up from the road from the dock. I swapped out Sophia's tube and replaced her worn tire at a local bike shop. Once her ride were fixed, we loaded up on food at the Town & Country supermarket, then set out for Fay-Bainbridge Park.

10365922_993857160584_5267237488044375466_n

10408646_993857070764_1716660952326090907_n

10350420_993856621664_2814790089926791439_n

10410136_993856686534_220364843708259867_n

Our trip

Without boring you with the play-by-play, we had a great trip! I discovered how exhausting it was to tow a trailer loaded down with 90lbs of dog/camping gear/food. How tired you ask? Like so tired my wife was biking circles around me while I huffed and puffed my way in granny gear up the rolling hills of Bainbridge.

We visited the beautiful Bainbridge Vineyards Winery where Luna romped with the founder's 11-month-old puppy. Later we also sipped wine at Eleven, an understated winery that was staffed by the approachable storytelling manager Mike.

Camping at Fay-Bainbridge was a the perfect choice. The park overlooks the scenic and calm waters of the Puget Sound. While we were just a few miles from our home in the Ballard neighborhood of Seattle, the song birds, towering trees and scent of pine needles mixed with the salty air made us feel much, much further away from the bustle of the city.

For an adventure that rang up to around a $100, I highly suggest giving this ride a try. We loved it!

My background is in digital marketing, websites and other work online, so the prospect of developing an expertise in event planning was not exactly on my bucket list. However, after my wife and I successfully hosted our wedding in rural Lyle, Wa, I feel like I might just have a winning second career planning seating charts and designing hand-crafted decorations.

This is our wedding story....

The proposal

Sophia and our new pup Luna posing at the start of Lumberjack.

"This is perfect!" I thought. My girlfriend had just accepted my marriage proposal, a thrown-together affair that involved me pledging my love to her at the finish of my first 100-mile race, the 2011 Lumberjack 100-Mile Endurance Run. Originally I envisioned planning out an elaborate, romantic date where I'd pop the question, however as I ran through the night at Lumberjack, it just felt like now was the right time and place. Earlier that week Sophia and I got Luna, a 4-month-old border collie / terrier puppy, and Sophia had just WON the 50-mile distance at Lumberjack. So when I finished the race five hours later, I decided to just go for it.

After sprinting the last few yards to cross the finish line, Sophia embraced my filthy body, disregarding the layers of mud and sweat I wore on my skin, shirt and shorts. We hugged and kissed.

I asked Sophia if we could speak in private, and she guided my exhausted body a few feet from where the other race finishers were gathered. Without a ring, flowers, or even the strength to kneel on one knee, I popped the question and Sophia replied "Yes, of course!" while grinning and nodding. Her acceptance marked the beginning of a new chapter in our relationship: our engagement... and the start of wedding planning. At the time I didn't realize that I was about to embark on an entirely new type of endurance event.

(I ended up re-doing my proposal, this time with a ring, just a month later at the Lost Lake 50K so I'd be legit and get the moment on camera. Luckily, Sophia again said yes!)

With Sophia's family in New Zealand and my folks living in New York, she and I knew that the majority of the wedding planning would be done on our own. Our budget didn't allow for a professional planner, and we're not the cookie-cutter type, so a banquet hall was out, too. After discussing several options, Sophia and I came up with a plan. "Let's get married at Tara's", we collectively declared.

The location

Tara's home in Lyle, WA

Tara Peyralans is a longtime friend of Sophia's family and lives just outside of the small town of Lyle, Wa, about four hours from Seattle. Her log cabin home is found half a mile down a dirt road and sits on 60+ acres full of scrub oak and dry prairie grass. While lacking easy access to hotels, supermarkets and the commonalities of urban life, Tara's property could't be more scenic or fitting for a rustic wedding. As trail runners, Sophia and I knew this was the perfect place to exchange vows. Within a few days Sophia and I brought up the idea to Tara on a phone call and Tara very graciously agreed to host us. Location, check!

"Think of all the money we'll save by not having to pay for a venue!" Sophia and I proclaimed.

The only challenge now? Well, we lacked a caterer, ceremony officiant, seating, lights, water and the majority of our guests lived hundreds and even thousands of miles away in locations as spread out as British Columbia, Kenya and New Zealand. Luckily, this didn't deter us. Here's how Sophia and I pulled off our rustic rural wedding.

The real planning begins

Sophia and I had plenty of time to plan our wedding ceremony and reception, because instead of aiming for a day in August of 2011, the summer following my proposal, we decided to host our wedding in August of the following year. This gave us a solid 16 months to save and prepare for our big day.

To stay organized, we kept a list of guests and their addresses in a Google document that we each contributed to. We even used a simple google form to collect the mailing addresses of all the guests.

In the same Google Doc, we added a budget tab to estimate expenses and also started tracking what items we would need to borrow, rent or buy. Staying organized helped to quell our fear.

How will we afford this? Where will we get all the supplies? Will people really show up?

These questions occasionally buzzed around in our minds, but we tried to stay calm by working on the things we could, and by repeating the mantra "It'll all work out...It'll all work out." Drinking plenty of wine helped, too.

Instead of relying on a wedding planning guides or month-by-month planning spreadsheets provided by friends, Sophia and I just made lists of questions we had as they arose and hunted for answers online or by calling businesses. Sophia took charge of finding a florist, wedding dress and caterer. I researched the ceremony run-of-show and equipment rental companies where we could pick up a power generator and sound equipment. Each week we spent 1-2 hours on the wedding, either updating mailing addresses of long-distance friends or sifting through Pinterest for homemade decorations.

By working on the website together, Sophia and I discussed the various parts of the event that were important to us.

As our plans began to firm up, we put together a wedding website with all the details about the event including where to camp out before the big day, and the literary of our fun run, or as we called it, Matrimonial 5-miler. Having a website might sound excessive, but the process of building the site was actually really rewarding (well, maybe we didn't need the Wedding Trailer). The template we used gave us a great foundation to start from and list of categories we should consider like accommodations, and "our story". Storing all our information in a website also meant we didn't have to keep our family and friends guessing.

Cheesy as it might sound, I loved working on this process together. It gave Sophia and I something to reflect on--an important and often overlooked practice during one's engagement. As the months passes, the wedding ceremony, reception and weekend of celebration began to come into focus. The rustic adventure Sophia and I were hoping for was being realized in true country form.

But what about food?

Initially, we had hoped to have a local caterer cook and serve a buffet for our wedding guests on Tara's land, however our search kept running into dead ends. A friend of Tara's highly recommended the catering services of the Lyle Hotel. Unfortunately, that business shut down the summer prior. And because Tara was already offering us so much, asking her to cook for 60 or 70 of our closest friends was out of the question. As a rural community, there were few catering options so we knew we had to get creative. Maybe a BYOF wedding? Hmm..

Inspired by a friend's food truck business and with a suggestion from one of my groomsman, we got the idea that we could get a truck to cater our reception, instead of a traditional caterer. While our friend Sam's Seattle Biscuit Company couldn't make it to Lyle, we were able to find a top-notch truck in Portland, Thrive Pacific NW, who agreed to drive the 70+ miles to Lyle. Their menu included organic and gluten-free dishes, so Sophia was game. I loved their storytelling and logo.

Next up, who's going to marry us?

Erika from Thrive was amazing. They put together a menu and plan that perfectly fit our needs.

Our officiant (and musician, aunt & superhero)

Washington state requires an ordained minister to officiate a wedding, so Sophia and I knew we would have to track down a professional to host our union. But who? We go to the 'church' of mountains for our spiritual development, so no ordained names instantly jumped to mind. Luckily, after doing some research online, we discovered that WA permits any ordained religious leader to officiate, but does not license the process. The Wa guidelines actually say that... they DO NOT verify... basically anybody, ordained by any religion, can do it. Interesting....

After a few minutes of searching online and a call with my Aunt Ellyn in Pennsylvania, we had an officiant! Ellyn agreed to get ordained through an online church and a few minutes later was armed-to-marry. Officiant, check!

Through later planning, Ellyn and her family also agreed to play live music during our ceremony and reception, including the hit You and I by Ingrid Michaelson. I can't thank her family enough! They are a talented and accommodating bunch.

And the rest of the stuff

Over the next few months, the rest of the details came together wonderfully. We set up a Honeyfund account to collect gifts from our guests. This funded our honeymoon, or as we like to call it, mega-moon to visit Sophia's family in Kenya. This journey even included fulfilling the dream of summiting Mt. Kenya. Score!

Going into the experience, we knew we had a budget to cover some extravagances, but not every bell and whistle. Sophia and I both value photos, so we knew we'd spring for a professional photographer. Luckily we were able to connect with the very talented, Sarah Heitman, a friend-of-a-friend (and fellow athlete). Sophia also wanted a quality dress and was thrilled by the services of Cicada Bridal.

For the rest of the wedding needs, Sophia and I just kinda figured things out. The rental chairs and lights came from the charming local rental company Riverhood. For refreshments, we made arrangements with a friend, Kevin, owner of the fantastic Northwest Peaks Brewery, to drive in two kegs of his best Ballard-brewed beer. We also bought honey from a local beekeeper to make table gifts for each guest. Oh, and we can't forget the wine. We bought 30+ bottles of white and red wine from a local Safeway.

The big day is approaching

Instead of wedding cake, we opted for pies made by a local baker Pauline. And friends and family helped create decorations, including the bunting adorning our reception, expertly sewn by Heidi Burford-Bell, one of Sophia's bridesmaids.

With all the major plans in place and the budget still holding, Sophia and I just started letting go and relaxing. The wedding was coming soon, but we had done all the planning we could do. So, we just went with the flow and relaxed. We had faith that all would work out.

On the wedding weekend my Dad and brother Mike spent hours rigging up the rented generator and lights. Countless other friends and family also helped with everything from setting up chairs, to playing music and general crowd control. Kudos also to Theresa, Tara's sister-in-law, who served as the general manager on the day of the rehearsal dinner and wedding. While Sophia and I toasted champagne, it was Theresa who made sure the night went off without a hitch.

A local beekeeper supplied us with honey. We then had the bears filled, and added an engraving with our initials to complete the small gift.

How it turned out

We wanted to make the entire wedding affair not just a single day of fun, but weekend of celebration. I think we pulled that off. Sophia's family were kind enough to rent a sizable luxury house overlooking the scenic Columbia River in a town just down from Lyle. This was the wedding party's basecamp and is where we stayed for the week leading up to the wedding. The kitchen housed many group dinners and games of Cards Against Humanity. Having this time to spend family we rarely got to visit with was essential and made the whole experience that much more rewarding.

Celebrating Sophia's father Grant's b-day at the White Salmon house

Matrimonial Five-Miler

Since running is a central part of our live, on the Friday before the wedding, Sophia and I held a five-mile group run.

To kick off wedding weekend, Sophia and I held the Matrimonial Fun Run, a five-mile race along the scenic Klickitat trail. Decked out in wedding themed running attire, the majority of runners took it easy on the race. That is except for Gary and I. After chatting for most of the run, with about a mile left, we dropped the hammer and sprinted for the finish.

Gary and me spiriting for the finish. My modest wedding costume consisted of just an aerodynamic clip-on bow-tie

Unfortunately, Gary (aka sponsored Salomon professional ultra-runner-of-the-year ) had more hammer to drop, and I finished about 10 yards back from him. He smiled, I panted. The rest of the runners took a more responsible pace and finished without profusely sweating and gasping for air.

Rehearsal Dinner

Tara not only allowed us to host our wedding on her property and put up with us when I weed-whacked a spot in her meadow grass for our wedding ceremony, she also cooked our entire wedding party the rehearsal dinner. And this wasn't just some tv dinner affair either. Tara and her daughters plated salmon, harvested salad from her garden and cooked gluten-free chocolate molten cake for the entire wedding party. The spread was breathtaking--I almost didn't want to eat it. Almost.

As the light dimmed on the hills outside Lyle, I was so grateful that our friends had come together to celebrate our union. It's not cheap to take off from work and fly across the country. I'm so glad we were all able to come together.

Being the amazing woman that she is, Tara hosted and cooked the rehearsal dinner. She and her daughters plated the three-course meal. Amazing.

The Ceremony & Reception

On the morning of the wedding, I headed over to Tara's early to put up the last of the decorations with my family while Sophia stayed back at the White Salmon house to get dressed with her bridesmaids. The weather was surprisingly August in Lyle, and to our blessing, the wind wasn't upturning tables or thrashing decorations like it often is in that area.

The sun setting in Lyle

02

04

03

Time to get married. A month before the wedding, we visited Tara's and I spent two hours weed-whacking a square into her meadow, knocking down the hip-high prairie grass.

My longtime friend Chris walked both Michelle and Deb down the aisle. These are both powerful women, so Chris was on his best behavior.

With Tara at the wheel of her old International, she drove Sophia and her Dad the last few steps to the ceremony. In the background, Sophia's entrance song was Outro by M83, non-traditional and perfect.

Ok, things are getting real. Ellyn leads the group in a quasi-Quaker wedding.

As part of the ceremony, guests were encouraged to offer their words and endorsements. My Mom shared kind wishes.

And she said YES!

On our exist, Sophia and I signed a Quaker wedding document. Following us, each guest endorsed it too, creating a community endorsement of our marriage. I had the form drawn up by an artist on Etsy. Best investment ever.

After the ceremony, the wedding party gathered at Tara's for group photos.

I'm pretty sure this isn't how its done.

And then it was party time. The light was just dimming.

And the bouquet was caught by... actually everyone. The ensuing fight lasted hours and sent two bridesmaids to the hospital. Kidding!

What I learned from the experience

A few thoughts...

Event planning is complex, but if you take it one step at a time, even a complicated rural, self-organized party like the one I had is possible.

Early in the process, discuss with your partner exactly what you each want the event to look and feel like. Having a consistent vision will prevent disagreements and hurt feelings down the road. Talk and write down what you think.

Google is your friend. We used it for everything from storing our guest list to searching for text to base our vows on.

Weddings are expensive. Even a modest wedding will run $50-$100 per person in most areas. Yes, even when you are really, really thrifty. If that sounds too pricey, consider renting out a restaurant for an afternoon and doing an appetizer-only reception. This would make a shorter affair, but will save you lots of cash in the end. Luckily, our parents chipped in and we used some of our savings to pull the event off. No debt incurred.

Talk to friends who were recently married about what things they saved money on, and what areas they splurged on.

Sophia and I each selected parts of the wedding we wanted to work on. This really worked out well for us because we each felt ownership over different parts of the affair.

Don't forget the most important part: the relationship is what matters. The dress, rings, flowers and even family and friends aren't really why you're there. They compliment the experience, but the core of the experience is the partnership. Spend your time and energy on this more than anything else.

At 8am this morning, Washington-based ultra runner Scott McMurtrey along with 109 competitors from around the world began the Atacama Crossing, one of the most challenging races in South America, if not the world.

This 7-day 250km race cuts across the Atacama Desert, one of the driest places on earth, and requires competitors to run self-supported across salt lakes, lava flows and sand.

Race officials are posting live updates from the race. You can track Scott's progress at www.4deserts.com/atacamacrossing. The 155- mile Atacama is just one leg of the 4 Deserts Endurance Series offering the most intense desert endurance races on earth. The 4 Deserts series also includes races in the hottest (Sahara Race in Egypt), coldest (The Last Desert in Antarctica) and windiest (Gobi March in China) deserts on earth.

I had the opportunity to interview Scott before he caught his flight down to Chile. As I previewed in a previous post, Scott has some interesting thoughts on what compells him to take on these endurance challenges.

[Joel Ballezza] So you're running across Chile, what gave you the idea for this adventure?

[Scott McMurtrey] I’m always on the lookout for international races. This year I knew I wanted to travel to South America. I’ve had my eye on a few marathons and a couple ultramarathons, and then I came across the Atacama Crossing race. My first reaction was, “No way. Too scary. I’m not ready for something like this.” In other words, “It’s out of my comfort zone.” So about ten seconds later I decided that this would be the perfect race for me, and I sent in my application.

[JB] Can you describe the distance you're undertaking, start and end points and what type of terrain you will be traversing?

[SM] The race covers 250-km across the Atacama Desert in six grueling stages. The Atacama Desert is regarded as the driest place on earth. Stage 1 starts at 10,000 ft. Temperatures will be over 100 degrees. It looks as though the course will wind over mountains, salt flats, rock, sand, and just about any other variation of hot/dry earth that can be made.

[JB] What type of support will you have?

[SM] This is basically an unsupported, solo run. Participants are required to carry everything they’ll need for a week, expect for tents and extra water. This means a week of food and energy gels, a sleeping bag, first aid, extra clothes, etc. There will be checkpoints along each route where we can refill out water bottles.

I believe it’s going to be an extraordinary adventure.

[JB] What are your expectations with your Chile run?

[SM] I’m expecting to have my butt handed to me. I’m confident I can complete it, but I’m preparing myself to be absolutely unprepared for the conditions that I’ll face. I mean, c’mon, it’s winter here in Washington. I’m training in sub-freezing conditions for a 100+ degree hellhole. I have no illusions that this is going to be an easy week. I’m mentally prepared, I hope, for a long, long, long slog.

[JB] Previously you've crossed Idaho. What is it about crossing a geographic region, either a state or a country, that fascinates you?

[SM] It just sounds cool, doesn’t it? The run across the Idaho Panhandle was 93 miles and took me about 21 hours. I wanted to say that I did it in a single day. That was the farthest I’ve run in a single go.

I’m even hatching a plan to run across Washington with my dog. I’d love to run across the United States someday, but I don’t have the resources to do something like that right now.

[JB] What would you say to someone who thought the idea of crossing a country by foot is too difficult or insane?

[SM] Difficult or insane? Heck, those are two of the best reasons why. Again, it’s all about comfort zone. Many of the best moments of my life have been a result of testing my own boundaries.

But you know, the reality is that I’m still kind of in a comfort zone. Sure, I may be pushing my own limits, but I still know that other people have done these things before (and most of them have survived), and I know that the human body is capable of great endurance. So though part of me feels like it really is crazy or insane, there’s the part of me that keeps reminding myself that I’ll be relatively fine as long as I’m smart.

I guess it’s just about finding that thing that gets you excited to live.

I don't know who first offered this piece of wisdom, but it is something to keep in mind at your next competition:

"You don't win races with your feet, you win them with your mind."

I had heard this seemly trite quote before, but it wasn't until yesterday that the message helped me fend off a runner and earn a second-place finish at the Woolley Trail 50k.

At the mind-numbingly early hour of 5am, my girlfriend Sophia, friend Heather and I loaded our water bottles, spare clothes and trail shoes into Sophia's Honda Civic and drove north on I-5. The morning was frosty, with the thermometer hanging in the low 30s, but felt much colder. It would be a few hours before the sun would make an appearance.

The course was an out-and-back route on a 15 mile section of the Cascade Trail. Flat as a pancake, the only obstacles on the crushed gravel trail were a few downed trees and a 200' stretch of the course intersected by a shallow stream pumping ice cold water.

Technically, this was just a fun run, not sanctioned by any racing groups, but when I lined up at the start at five minutes to 7, I felt a surprising hunger to compete. I had never finished a race in the top five before, and barely broke the top ten in previous competitions. However, today, the idea of pushing myself wandered into my mind. "Maybe" I told myself.

Following a briefing by race director Terry Sentinella, runners took off into a dimly lit and frigid morning.

The first 15 miles of the race were as I expected (with the exception of the buffalo and alpaca grazing next to the trail). A group of us, mostly men with the exception of the powerful Shawn McTaggart, pushed to the front and set a 7:15/mile pace. This was a little fast for me, so I dropped back and settled at a 7:30/mile, running alone in the cold.

Because runners were competing in 1/2 marathon, marathon and 50K distances on the same course, I wasn't totally sure of who was ahead of me until I approached the turn-around for the 50K distance. The 50k leader was a 100%-business looking runner in his late-30s who was dialed in and at least a mile ahead of me. I looked around but didn't see anyone else between me and the turn-around.

Wait! Could I be in second?

After grabbing half of a PB&J sandwich and refilling my water bottle at the aid station, I thanked the cheerful volunteers and started my return run. While catching the front runner was out of the question, if I could hold out, I could finish stronger than I've ever done before.

As the miles began to tick by...20, ...22, ..24, my demeanor changed from competitive fun-run to 100%-business, too. The morning felt bright and I just kicked one foot in front of the other.

Despite my determination, at some point in the last quarter of the 50k I gradually started to slow down. With no one around me, my pace slowed.

I didn't realize that I was being stalked.

At mile 28, the sound of foot steps came out of nowhere. I checked over my left shoulder and saw another runner, a male in his 40s with a high tempo gaining on me with what seemed like an effortless advance. Suddenly, he pulls parallel to me.

Shoot! I've got just three miles left, and he has more gas in his tank than I do! Wait, could he be running the marathon distance instead of the 50K?

"You're running the 50K, right" I asked.

"Yeah" he replied in a friendly, but focused tone.

"Same here" I replied, knowing that a duel was about to happen.

Grinning, he replied "I guessed that".

A moment after this exchange he begins to lead me by 10 feet. While he was the stalker for 27 miles, now he was the underdog hero coming to take what was his. I have to hold on!

Panicked, I thought back to a book I'm reading, Open, the autobiography by tennis great Andre Agassi. He describes tennis matches against pros who at the time were much better than him. Agassi described using mental games to take the wind out of competitors by making them think that he was stronger, even when he wasn't.

That's what I have to do.

With just three miles left, I had to make my move and I'd have to do it in a way that would make the other runner think I was stronger than I was--to take away his hope.

The mind game was on!

In a dramatic flair, I threw my hand-held Nathan water bottles to the ground, lightening my load, and began to swing my arms with full vigor. I quieted my breath to make it sound like I wasn't working as hard as I was. When the moment just right, and with only two miles to the finish, I pushed past him in one smooth acceleration, never looking back or checking my watch. My stare was fixed on the last two miles of the 50k.

After stepping through the stream that bisected the trail, I crossed the finish with a surprisingly quick time of 4:12:36, capturing 2nd, my best finish ever.

What do you do when you're having a tough day? You know, when you struggle to get out of a perfectly good, warm bed and your whole body aches. Maybe you're coming home from a long day of work and you just can't see yourself lacing on a pair of sneakers? You need to get in your miles on the road or trail this week, but you feel unmotivated and lost for the moment.

Your energy has tanked. How could you possibly exercise?

When I feel like this, I reach for two essential tools to get me going. The first is a glass of cold, pulpy orange juice. A few sips and the simple sugars rush to my brain, giving me a quick boost of energy.

The second essential tool for getting me motivated is my iPod Shuffle. I put on a podcast from Endurance Planet (itunes link) or switch on some Lady Gaga or Lil Wayne and within 50 feet from my house, my heart is pumping and my legs grow strong.

The key parts of finding your energy to exercise is:

Recognizing when you're feeling low

Knowing what your body and mind need to get back on course.

For me, I know orange juice can save my day (and if it is the morning, I gulp coffee). I make sure I always have some in the kitchen. Similarly, pop music and rap can transform me from shuffling around the house after a long day of work, to effortlessly pounding out miles on an evening run. I just prepare for low moments by always having an up-tempo song list loaded into my charged iPod Shuffle.

This prep can be the difference between meeting your weight and endurance goals, and falling behind. Sports and endurance podcasts are also helpful because when you listen to other athletes talk about dealing with struggle, you think "Hey, I'm not giving up either".